Three Weddings and an Explosion Part One
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: When Sherlock fell, something in John died. Eight months later, Sarah and Andrew want John to come to their wedding. Who is the figure in the woods, and how will John begin to rebuild his life in a world without Cuddles? Sequel to 'The Case of the Cuddle'. Slash. Johnlock Mystrade. Now complete. Watch out for Part Two coming soon.
1. Chapter 1

**Three Weddings and an Explosion Part 1**

**Chapter 1**

**RETURN TO THE "CUDDLE'VERSE"!  
**

_**A/N**__: I've decided this would be as good a time as any to start publishing this, given all the walk about weddings on the wires at the moment. And frankly, I'm sick to death of the bloody thing, of tinkering with it, so I thought, why the hell not? I'm going to publish this in two parts because it's so huge, but you will be getting daily chapters of Part 1 for as long as it takes. I'm hoping your comments will help motivate me to get Part 2 finished. And then you can get on with your life and I can finish my bloody Victorian novel, which is what I should be doing instead of wallowing about in the mud with Sherlock. (now there's an idea…)_

_If you haven't read The Case of the Cuddle', this won't make any sense to you at all. Go read it, there's a dear._

_**Warning:**__ Angst. Mountains of it. For the foreseeable future. You were warned. (But I promise smut later on. Lots of it.)_

* * *

He didn't know why he had said yes. Probably because Molly had persuaded him it would be a good idea to get out. And because Sarah had begged him.

'After all, he was the one that got me into this,' she said over coffee at Speedy's one afternoon. 'I owe it to him really. And you. It wouldn't be the same to do it without you there.'

John stared into his half empty mug. That was what his life felt like now, half empty, missing the thing that made him whole.

'He hated things like that,' he said. 'Social functions of any kind. Brought him out in a rash. You know what he was like. He didn't like people.'

'He _did_ like people. He just thought it was a sign of weakness to admit it,' she smiled, and closed her fingers over his hand. 'And he would want you to relax and enjoy yourself occasionally.'

John thought, how can I relax and enjoy myself if he isn't here?

'It would feel wrong. Like I was betraying him somehow,' was what he said.

'You're not in purdah, you know. It's been eight months. You've barely been out of the house.'

'There doesn't seem any point if he's not there to go with.'

She looked sadly at him and shrugged. 'I can't make you come, John. But I want you to know that it would mean so much to me if you did. And to Andrew.'

Molly was more direct. 'I'll be your date,' she said. 'I don't mind. I don't get to go to many weddings, and you won't have to make excuses to me if you want to go into a dark corner because I'll understand.'

'It's not that I don't think you'd make a lovely date, Moll,' he told her.

'I know. It's that you didn't get to marry him, and you know you should have done.'

As usual, Molly had uncanny insight.

'Can you actually see inside my head?'

She laughed. 'It's how I would feel, if I were you.'

John wondered whether that was how she felt anyway. After all, her crush on Sherlock had been painfully obvious from the first moment. He wondered about all the times she must have fantasised about being dressed in white, and walking down the aisle to meet a dapper Sherlock in a bower of white roses.

And of course, what she said was true. They had been through so much together, survived so much pain. He sometimes felt like Sherlock had owed him a wedding, just for that alone. But by the time they had sorted out their feelings for one another, life had got too busy. There was always a new case, another crime. There had never been time.

'At least I told him I loved him,' John said, only vaguely aware of Molly's presence.

'Yes. You did. And I know how much that meant to him.'

'If it meant so much to him, why did he do it? Why did he leave me? Why did he say all those dreadful things on the phone? Didn't he know I knew the truth?'

'Of course he did. Maybe he had his reasons.'

If he had been less grief-stricken, he might have wondered about the way she looked away from him when she said those words, but he didn't. He was too tired, too drained to care. That night he typed out a brief letter to Sarah, accepting her invitation to the wedding, and explaining that he had to bring Molly as his date, for moral support.

* * *

_Tomorrow, John and Molly arrive at Andrew and Sarah's wedding…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Three Weddings and an Explosion Part 1**

**Chapter 2**

_A/N: thank you for all your support and comments. Please keep them coming. My stomach dropped when I realised there are half a dozen scenes missing, so I'm going to have to write them on the fly. Your motivation required!_

_(Kida, when are you going to get an account so I can mail you to thank you?)  
_

_Anyway, on with the wedding…_

* * *

A meadow ran down the hill from the Ha-ha below the house, dotted here and there with ancient oaks, beeches and horse chestnuts. The valley was rimmed with woods, but the view from the terrace, where John stood, was sublime. There was a parterre to the side, and in the middle stood the great house, a white-washed Regency residence that had been turned into a luxury hotel. It was all very elegant, wisteria tumbling down the bow frontage, pink peonies and blue flag irises nodding in the flower beds, bees buzzing in the borders, and lavender just coming into bloom. It was mid-June and the perfect weather for a country wedding.

He was having a medicinal brandy. Despite the beauty of the place, or maybe even because of it, it was going to be a tough afternoon and he felt thready and on edge, beset on all sides by wishes that could never now be fulfilled.

Suddenly he felt a warm hand on his arm, and turned to see Molly, a vision in peach silk. She had an explosion of feathers pinned to the top of her head.

'Oh! Er. You look lovely.'

'You don't like it,' she said, immediately reading his expression.

'No, it's lovely. Really. It's just that the hat is unusual.'

'It's a fascinator.' It was a profusion of feathery quills, diamante spikes, loops of straw and net, that waived delicately in the breeze.

'Well, it certainly lives up to its name. How the hell does it stay on?'

She laughed. 'Lots of hairgrips!' She touched the back of her head nervously. 'I can take it off if you'd prefer.'

'No,' he smiled, kissing her cheek fondly. 'It's brilliant. Thank you so much for making the effort. And for coming. I'm glad you did.'

She smiled and tweaked his lapel. 'You look very handsome,' she told him.

'Thank you. We make a good couple then.'

'Dutch courage?' she asked, looking at his drink.

'Something like that. Brandy. Would you like something?'

'No, thanks, I'm saving myself for the champagne, there's crates of it stacked up in there.' Her eyes grew round with anticipation.

John knocked back the remainder of his spirit. 'I suppose we had better go in then.'

She slipped her arm through his. 'It'll be alright,' she told him, trying to look encouraging. He didn't feel encouraged. He felt a mess. What the fuck am I doing here, he thought as he set his head, adopted his Captain's walk and escorted her into the mansion.

* * *

An official table had been laid in the bow window of the drawing room. The great swoop of floor to ceiling windows must have been thirty feet wide, and the verdant landscape stretched out beyond, a perfect pastoral setting. A tumble of pink lysianthus and roses decorated the table cloth, and Andrew, in his morning suit, stood in front of it, wringing his hands. He caught John's eye amongst the guests as he and Molly entered, and gave him a grateful nod. The look on his face suggested he was glad of any moral support. It occurred to John that perhaps he should not be so grateful to see his fiance's ex-boyfriend at his wedding, but he wrote the idea off as uncharitable. They took their seats at the back of the room, behind ranks of aunts and uncles and friends, all rippling with excitement. There were a lot of fascinators, John noted. He was the wrong height too. Feathers were going to be tickling his nose every time he talked to someone. Another delight to add to the day, he decided with a sigh.

The Registrar and her assistant arrived and bade everyone rise for the bride.

John's stomach clenched. This was the moment he had been dreading.

And there she was, walking on the arm of her father. Sarah looked radiant, serenely beautiful. Her gown was long and slim and rapaciously tasteful, with a fishtail train. It made her look several inches taller, and several sizes thinner than he knew her to be. Bursting with pride, her father handed her to his future son-in-law, and the ceremony began.

John watched wretchedly. For a moment he had the vision of how it might have been had things turned out differently, how it might have been him standing there with Sarah's hand in his, glowing with happiness as she joined her life to his. And then the image behind his eyes changed, and he saw not Sarah taking his hand, but the tall, rangy figure of his beloved, bending his head as he took his tender vows.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Molly lift a tissue out of her bag to dab her eye. He blinked hard to cover his own distress and did what Sherlock always told him to do when he was nervous.

The imperious voice barked in his head. 'Recite pi to as many decimal places as you can manage,' he would say. John gritted his teeth and began to run the numbers inside his head.

'3.1415926535' (Deep breath.) '8979323846.' (Deep breath.) '264338….'

Before he knew it, the ceremony was over, and the Registrar was saying, 'I'm delighted to present Mr and Mrs Andrew MacIntyre. Andrew, you may kiss your bride.'

He watched their lips meet and a terrible pain arced through him. He had to look at his feet hard to stay upright. He could feel Molly bending towards him in concern, but he couldn't speak. When he managed to lift his head, music was playing and the happy couple had turned and were walking towards him. And Sarah looked right into his eyes.

She was so beautiful. So unutterably beautiful. There was no other word for it. And so happy. And a flood of happiness washed through his own body, and he was indescribably glad for her, glad that she had found the happiness he had once known, glad that she had it to keep, because he knew the world could offer nothing better.

* * *

Champagne was served on the terrace in the sun. Small children were racing about, getting their new clothes dusty. People stood in awkward knots, not yet loosened up into relaxed conversation by the booze. Molly and John stood amidst a circle of other doctors. With Sarah and Andrew both being 'in the trade', they had a lot in common with many of the other guests. John found himself talking about general practise, and one of Andrew's fellow surgeons asked about his experience with treating facial trauma wounds in the theatre of battle. He was delighted. It gave him something to focus on, even if it meant talking about his war experience, which was something he normally shied away from. Besides, photos were being taken, and the waiting around at weddings was something John hated. The chance of intelligent conversation made it bearable.

'Oh, but you must tell me,' he heard the woman Molly was chatting with say. 'How long have you two been together?'

Molly's feathers quivered.

'Oh, er, we're not. I'm just John's moral support. His partner died recently, you see, and he wouldn't have felt up to coming otherwise.'

And there it was. Out in the open.

The conversation in the circle instantly died. Everyone looked at him awkwardly.

John cleared his throat. 'Nice to come out and have something else to think about,' he said gruffly, so that they all got the impression he was being a good sort and bearing up, which salved their social consciences and allowed conversation to resume. A waiter appeared with another tray of drinks at just the right moment, and everyone dived in, desperate to drown their embarrassment. John had been expecting it, so when Molly caught his sleeve and apologised, he just gave her a weak grin.

'It had to be said sooner or later,' he told her.

'Yes, but-'

'It's fine, Moll. Really.'

But it wasn't, and they both knew it. Why did he always have to feel like Sherlock was standing right behind him, a dark shadow tainting everything he touched? Suddenly he felt angry again, as he had for many months, at the betrayal of it. He still didn't understand. He supposed he never would. He looked out over the balustrade and across the green sward. Somebody was saying it had been landscaped by 'Capability' Brown. He could see someone standing at the edge of the wood, just on the lip of the hill. A walker, probably, he thought. God, I wish I was out there in the trees instead of trapped in this social nightmare.

He was alerted from his internal rant by a ripple of laughter, and suddenly there was Sarah, breaking into their little circle, glittering with pleasure. She came up to John and kissed him, taking his hands in hers.

'I'm so glad you came,' she told him, her eyes tearing up. 'It means so much to me that you're here. And to Andrew.'

'He's a lucky man,' he told her, and his voice came out hoarse with emotion. She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him, and then was gone, off to mingle some more.

John looked at Molly, raised his glass. 'I need something stiffer than this. I'm going to find the bar. Do you want one too?'

She grinned. 'Thought you'd never ask.'

* * *

_Tomorrow, Mycroft handles his grief badly…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Three Weddings and an Explosion Part1**

**Chapter 3**

_A/N: Thank you again for all your reviews. Keep them coming, they inspire me so much. Today, a little Mystrade for you..._

* * *

Saturday afternoon, and Greg had the kids, which was a lot easier now he was living in the penthouse with Mycroft. On a hot day like this, especially so. They were lounging by the rooftop pool.

It had surprised him that Mycroft was so good with Greg's children. He wasn't remotely precious about the furniture, as Greg had feared. He wanted the house to be used. He had even promised to take them all to his country home at Sandon one weekend, and suggested shooting when the season arrived. Emily had blanched, of course, and immediately decided to become a vegetarian, but then she was thirteen, so it was only to be expected. Matthew, on the other hand, was like every other eleven year old boy, and had only four interests: football, music, guns and video games. Not necessarily in that order. He went into paroxysms of delight at the thought of a shooting trip, and thereafter would never have a word said against his father's new boyfriend, even though the promised trip had not yet happened.

'Where is Mycroft?' Matthew whined.

Greg put down his book, a spy novel that his lover had given him for his birthday. It was putridly boring, but he felt he had to finish it for the sake of domestic peace.

'I told you, he's working.'

'People don't work on Saturdays,' Matthew pouted. He was sitting on the edge of the pool, splashing his feet and sulking.

'Lots of people work on Saturdays,' Emily pointed out. 'People in shops for instance.' This was a dig at her father for refusing to take her clothes shopping in Oxford Street that morning. But Greg was buggered if he was going to waste one of his rare days off trudging around shops, no matter how much he loved his kids.

'Yeah, but Mycroft doesn't _have _to work on Saturdays like people in shops,' Matthew said.

And it was true of course. He didn't. He had been avoiding the kids since Sherlock died, and they didn't like it. Greg missed him too.

'I wish he was here,' Matthew muttered.

'So do I,' Greg said.

He looked at the pool. It really was ridiculously hot. And suddenly it seemed equally ridiculous that Mycroft should be stuck inside on a day like this when he could be frolicking by the cool water. Grief was all very well, but Greg was going to have to put his foot down.

'I like it when he's here.'

'I know you do, Mattie. He's fun.'

'It's not that. It's just you're happy when he's around, that's all. I like it better when you're happy.'

Out of the mouths of babies and sucklings, Greg thought. He got up and kissed his son on the top of his head.

'Alright, sonny jim, I'll give him a ring, see if he can get away early.'

Both the kids cheered, and Greg padded into the shadowy flat to find his phone.

* * *

'Where are the notes on the Eritrea conference?' Mycroft barked at Anthea. She tried to conceal her irritation.

'On your desk, sir. Next to the Somali delegation list.'

He growled something inaudible, flipping through folders and throwing them on the floor. Really, he had been insufferable for months. She was thinking of tendering her resignation. Or she would be, if it hadn't been for the fact that she knew he couldn't help it. That he didn't even know he was doing it. Poor man.

The printer groaned. She snatched up the sheet it spewed out, and examined it. It was a surveillance photo of the interior of a fine Georgian room in which a wedding was taking place. She got up and went over to his desk to hand it to him.

'I thought you'd like to see this.'

He squinted at it, and she wondered for the fourteenth time that day if she should suggest booking him an eye test. And yet again, thought better of it.

'That suit isn't too bad on him, in spite of how much weight he's lost,' Mycroft observed. 'He doesn't look abjectly miserable.'

Anthea agreed. 'Not sure about Miss Hooper's headgear though.'

'Mmm. Not really _our_ taste, is it? Never mind, I'm sure it's just the thing for such occasions. I hope he has a nice time.'

'He certainly could do with it,' she agreed. 'I'll just go and get the details of the UN visit for next week's planning session, shall I?'

'Yes,' he said, not looking up from the picture. 'You don't think he and Miss Hooper-'

'Oh, no, sir. Definitely not.'

'Oh. Right. Very well then.'

When she came back from the filing room, he was shouting down his mobile phone. Mycroft never shouted. This was cause for grave concern. She sat at her desk with her back to the intersecting doors, but she couldn't help but hear what was going on, and suddenly found it made her blood boil.

'No…. No, Greg, you don't seem to have an earthly clue what you're asking…. Oh, of course! How silly of me! No, don't even… I have to go to New York tomorrow, has that even crossed your tiny brain? ... And you think that's an excuse to interrupt me and nag me to come and play with your bloody kids? ... I can't do this. No. No, don't even… Greg, I'm going to sleep at the club tonight, don't bother!'

He pressed the cut-off button and threw the phone at the wall.

Anthea picked up the file and stalked into his office.

'Here's the UN notes. I've had enough, I'm going home. And I think you should know that alienating everybody who loves you is not a clever survival tactic!'

She threw the folder onto his desk, stormed into her office, scooped up her handbag and slammed the door behind her as she left.

* * *

Greg pressed the red button, and closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. Everything was falling apart and he didn't know how to stop it.

'Dad?'

Emily was standing in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in towels. Her hair was dripping.

'What happened to you?

'Mattie threw me in.'

The look on her face said it all. She had heard every word. He ran his hand over his face and sighed. She walked over and gave him a hug.

'He'll come round,' she said, looking up into his eyes. 'He knows what a good thing he's onto with you.'

He stroked her cheek for a moment, dazzled yet again by the insight of his children.

'I don't know,' he said, offering as much of a smile as he could manage. 'What did I do to have such a clever daughter?'

She shrugged. 'I'm like you.'

He hugged her. 'How about I take you late night shopping Thursday?'

'Nah,' she said. 'Doesn't matter. Let's have a pizza instead.'

She put her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. 'I love you, Daddy.'

She hadn't called him Daddy in two years.

* * *

_Tomorrow, wedding speeches..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 4**

_**A/N:**__ Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favourited. As a result of your enthusiasm, I had an unexpected rush of blood to the head yesterday and, gripped with inspiration, wrote 2500 words. And then came up with a new 'deflowering' story. You see, it __does__ work!_

_**Warning**__: Major angst follows in the next couple of episodes. Don't say I didn't warn you…_

* * *

The meal was delicious. It is not often you get a wedding breakfast for one hundred guests that actually arrives at the table warm. John concluded the chef knew what he was doing.

They had been assigned to a round table with other couples and singles from the health professions, which meant they had plenty to talk about. The only interloper was Andrew's brother Simon, who turned out to be a barrister. He was a very handsome and charming man who seemed quite taken with Molly. John watched her blush and titter at his jokes, and jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow. She scowled at him and he gave her a leering grin back, which made her turn beetroot.

'It's okay,' he whispered in her ear as the desserts were handed out. 'Have some fun!'

'John, you are just terrible!' she hissed back, but with a grin that said, I am going to take you up on that, if you don't mind.

The speeches were tolerable. The bride's father was sentimental, the groom slightly astonished at his good fortune, and the best man just the right side of blue. Then the bride got up and waived her glass.

'I know the bride doesn't usually make a speech, but I think you know me well enough to know that I don't worry about sexist rubbish like that. Besides, I have something important to say.'

This attracted a few hoots from one of the rowdier tables, but people settled when she allowed her face to fall into a tender, serious expression.

'I want us to raise a glass one last time, and drink a toast to the founder of our feast, someone without whom we wouldn't all be sitting here today, someone who should be with us now but isn't, and it's not fair that he isn't.'

John's stomach clenched. He stared hard at the roses in the table centrepiece, and tried to stay calm. Molly's fingers brushed his arm, but he didn't dare look at her.

'A little while ago, I asked the opinion of a very clever man. Our friend, Sherlock. I asked him what he thought of Andrew, because I knew he wouldn't sugar-coat his words, and I needed to know the truth. He wasn't known for being polite, so I was sure he would tell me whatever he really thought, and he did.

'He told me three things. The first was that Andrew knew his wines.'

This provoked further enthusiasm.

'The second was that Andrew was besotted with me. And the third was that Andrew was about to propose, and that I should accept because he was the best chance I was going to get at my age.'

A gasp of shock was followed by an uncomfortable titter.

'Of course, he was right, as always. Within minutes of that conversation, Andrew did propose, and I accepted. And here we all are, and I am the happiest woman in the world, and I have Sherlock to thank for that.

'It is cruel that he was taken from us. We miss him terribly. No matter what you've heard or read about him, I can tell you that he was the best of men, the cleverest and bravest. So I want you to raise your glasses and remember him right now. Please join me in toasting Sherlock Holmes.'

John barely heard the mumble of appreciation around him, and the clink of glasses. He was only faintly aware that everyone else at the table had risen to their feet. He hung onto the rim of his chair, his head down, trying to scrape together a last shred of calm. When everyone sat down, they looked at him, and Molly squeezed his arm again, but he looked away. A weight was bearing down on his chest, crushing the breath out him. His collar suddenly felt like it was throttling him.

The Toastmaster stood up, his gold epaulettes glinting in the afternoon sunshine, and announced that the bride and groom were going to cut the cake. (And the awkward atmosphere, along with it.) People sprang up with cameras in relief. John got unsteadily to his feet in the melee.

'Need some fresh air,' he croaked to Molly.

'Do you want me to-' She offered, but he didn't hear the rest because he had slipped quietly out of the French window and made off across the terrace.

* * *

_Tomorrow, John is overwhelmed by grief…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Three Weddings and an Explosion Part One**

**Chapter 5**

_A/N: again thank you all for reviewing and favouriting, it powers my pen._

* * *

He walked hard, putting as much distance between himself and the other guests as he could, as fast as he could. He scrambled down the Ha-ha, and out into the meadow, the long grass whipping at his legs as he strode. He could feel the pain building in his throat, his eyes smarting and blurring, but he couldn't fall apart here, where people could see him. He had to find somewhere he could be alone and out of sight.

Ahead, further up the valley, there was a tree. He wasn't sure if it was beech or oak or horse chestnut, not that it really mattered. What mattered was that its boughs swooped low to the ground, forming a deep skirt. He knew that kind of tree from long ago. There had been one in the park in Woking where he had played as a kid. He had spent many happy hours in the silent, green cave formed around its trunk by the wall of leaves. There would be a circle of space under this tree's branches too, he knew, where he could sink down and grieve unobserved. Where he could be alone with his pain. Increasingly desperate, he hurried on, head down to hide the tears that had begun to streak his cheeks.

When he finally reached the tree, he flung his arms about his head, bent down and battled through, twigs tearing at him. Inside, there was a still, earthy arbour, its floor spongy with leaf mould and beech mast. The late afternoon sun shimmered through the leaves.

He dropped to his knees, hands over his face, and began to cry in earnest. He let rip, let the agony out, sobs wrenching his ribs, curling over to hold his belly at the pain of it, wailing out his misery. Nobody would know. Nobody could hear him in here. They were all at the reception, drinking their champagne and eating their cake and chattering like the world hadn't ended on the pavement outside St Bartholomew's Hospital eight months before. And he hated them. He hated himself for caring. He hated the pain and the misery and the loss that tortured his every waking hour, and the nightmares of that terrible falling figure that flayed his nights. But most of all, he hated Sherlock, for not being alive, for not being here, in his arms, warm and loving and infuriating and beautiful and so very, completely Sherlock.

Exhaustion took him, and he keeled over on his side, writhing and wretched, praying to die now, so that he could find peace. He clawed at his stomach and chest, trying so hard to relieve the pain that wasn't a pain, this anguish that had ripped his soul in two. But he was too tired now, worn thin with it, helpless against its agony. Rolling onto his back, he gave in, became passive, let the misery come unfought, allowed himself to drift with it, on it, in it, until he lost all sense of time and place, until sleep finally took him, and wrapped him in a mossy darkness.

Lost, then, he became aware of warm arms embracing him, of soft lips touching his own. A flood of happiness washed through him. Strong hands held him, a long body curled against his. This dream lover whispered tenderly in his ear:

'Don't give up, my love, don't give in – we'll be together soon, I promise…'

He had not felt so warm, so comforted and safe, since those first days after the bomb, when he had nestled in Sherlock's arms in fear of his own trauma, and Sherlock had shielded him from terror. It had been beautiful then, and it was beautiful now. He lay there, wrapped in warm arms and peace, and knew rest for the first time in eight months.

* * *

'John? Jo-ohn?'

A call jolted him awake, a voice calling his name with concern. He looked around, confused at being suddenly alone when he had been so sure of his dream of comfort and togetherness.

'John?'

Closer now, a woman's voice, and he realised he knew the timbre. It was Molly. Dazed, he managed to stumble out from amongst the branches.

She was standing in the middle of the meadow, the soft breeze tugging at the silk of her dress. Her spikey hat was missing, her hair tumbling down her back, her face riven with concern.

'Oh, God, John, I was so worried,' she cried as soon as she saw him, rushing up.

He wiped his hand over his face, realising his eyes must be puffy and red. 'Needed some space.'

She hugged him, then brushed dead leaves off his suit, and out of his hair. 'You look like you've been rolling in a compost heap! Look at the state of you!'

He hugged her tightly. He didn't know what it was – perhaps it was all the chemicals the crying had released – but he was fiercely glad to see her. She stroked his cheek kindly.

'You look a wreck,' she smiled.

'Outside matches the inside then,' he managed.

'Tell me what I can do?'

'Nothing. There's nothing anyone can do. Sometimes, I just have to let it out.' He thought for a minute, and then revised his opinion. 'No, actually, there is something you can do. You can help me get absolutely hammered tonight. Lets let off some steam. There'd better be dancing at this bloody dirge is all I can say. I'm going to do 'Greased Lightning' standing on a table, and probably the 'Time Warp' too.'

She laughed. 'And that one where everybody sits on the floor and pretends to be rowing!'

'Fuck it, I'll even dance to the Birdie Song if necessary, but I'm going to have fun. And _you_ are going to take Simon to bed!'

She blanched. 'Don't!'

'Oh, come on, don't tell me he doesn't float your boat! He's got an epic arse, I know that much!'

'John!'

'Well, it's true.'

'You know what? I need to get very, very drunk as well.'

'Good. And I'm going to dance with Sarah. And Andrew can bugger off for one song.'

They stumbled back up the slope, arms around each other, laughing, the sun on their backs, and John felt happy for the first time in months.

* * *

_Tomorrow, Greg and Mycroft struggle to find each other again…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Three Weddings Part1 **

**Chapter 5**

_A/N: Apologies to those American readers (and any others) who have never experienced the total, mind-bending cheesiness that is The Birdie Song. You really haven't lived until you have experienced it. Or maybe you should rest easy in the knowledge that you'll never have to!_

_Hopefully you will enjoy a little bit of Mystradian relief today..._

* * *

When Greg got back from dropping the children home to their mother, he found Mycroft sitting on the little chair in the hall, the one he normally left his briefcase and umbrella on when he came in at night. He looked desolate. Greg dropped his keys on the hall table and looked down at him.

'I thought you were sleeping at the club.'

'I'm so sorry, Greg,' was all Mycroft seemed able to say.

Greg bent down and pulled his lover's hand from where it was tucked between his thighs. He lifted it to his lips and softly kissed the knuckles.

'I don't know what to do,' Mycroft whispered.

'Talk to me. We can work it out.'

'I don't know. I don't think we can.'

'Are you trying to tell me you don't want to be with me anymore?' His voice cracked when he said the horrible words, but he knew they had to be asked.

Mycroft looked up at him, horrified. 'Dear God, no! Not that!'

Greg crouched down in front of him. 'What then? This is tearing us apart, Myc, we have to deal with it.'

'It's me,' he whimpered, searching Greg's face. 'Don't you see? It's all my fault.'

'If this is about Sherlock, love-'

'I should have looked after him. I meant to protect him. But I couldn't protect him from myself.'

'Oh, God, that's what you think?' Greg scooped his lover into his arms. Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder, dry-eyed, shaking.

'You don't know,' he breathed. 'You don't know.'

'Look, John might not understand about the Moriarty thing, but I do. We went through all that at the time, and I told you I understood. And John'll come round, I promise.'

'It's not just that. I should have known, I should have seen. I let him seduce my mind, flatter me. I let him use me, Greg. How could I have been so stupid?

'A lonely man flattered into giving away secrets – isn't that what you said to Sherlock about the Irene Adler thing?'

'I never understood that, why John let him-'

'That's not what we're talking about, Myc. That was between those two. This is about us, you and me.'

'Yes,' Mycroft conceded. 'Yes.'

'You have to let this go. You made a mistake. Everybody does.'

'Not everybody makes a mistake that results directly in their brother's suicide.'

'You can't say that. You can't know what was in his mind in those last minutes. We'll never know why he did it, but it was his choice, Myc. His own. Nobody else's. Not yours or John's, or even Moriarty's. Sherlock's alone. He didn't have to do what he did.'

'I could have saved him. I should have stopped it.'

'How? Come on, Myc! This is from way back, isn't it?'

'You don't understand.'

'Then help me to.'

For a long time, Mycroft lay in a limp heap in Greg's arms. Greg could feel his heart beating fast, could sense the massive brain galloping along, trying to sort things, make sense of a myriad of data. Then, just as he was about to intervene, Mycroft finally spoke.

'Sherlock was eight years old when our sister Adelaide died of leukaemia, and nine when our father killed himself. Two years later, he was raped. I should have protected him from all those things. I could have. Ever since, I've been trying to look after him. He's all I've got – you can't call Mummy real family, given the way she is. I failed him, over and over again. And now I've failed him one last time. I couldn't protect him from my own mistake, from my own egotism. And now he's gone, and I'll never have the chance to tell him I'm sorry.

'I thought I could handle Moriarty. I thought I had him in the palm of my hand. My own arrogance. It was the other way around.'

Greg held him tight. He didn't know what else to do. Mycroft didn't seem able to rouse himself, and Greg couldn't bear to move him. He felt beset, heavy. He didn't know what to say, or how to handle this. Mycroft had turned out to be so much more damaged than he had ever imagined. It wasn't that it scared him. He just didn't know where to start.

Finally, he decided to trust his instinct.

'Listen to me. You need to stop. You need to have a break or you're going to end up having a nervous breakdown over this.'

'I can't! I've got to go to New York tomorrow!'

'And what would happen if you got run over by a bus this evening? They'd manage without you somehow. You can't keep thinking you are solely responsible for running the whole world, Myc! Delegate, for God's sake!'

Mycroft pulled away. 'You don't understand, if I don't-'

'If you don't stop soon, you'll have no brain left, that's all I know, and I'll have no Mycroft left, and let me tell you, that scares me far more than all the bloody terrorists in the world put together!'

Mycroft stared into his eyes in shock.

'Really?' he whispered eventually.

'Oh, come on, love. You know it.'

'I..I don't…'

'Yes, you do. You know I love you. You love me. Let's not fuck about, Myc. This is too important to waste. Please. Think about it.'

Mycroft slipped his hands up, cupped Greg's face in his hands. 'You're too good for me,' he said.

'Bollocks. Chingford, remember?'

Mycroft gave him a weak smile. 'I _have_ to go to the UN next week. But when I get back, I promise I'll take some time out.'

'I can book some time off too. We could go somewhere, abroad maybe. Somewhere sunny. You look like you haven't seen the sun in about a century.'

Mycroft gave him a demure smile. 'You know I have to be careful, with my colouring.'

Greg grinned. 'You'd get freckles, wouldn't you? I love freckles. You might even go so far as to say I'm a bit kinky for them.'

'Greg, do you ever think of anything above your waist?'

'When you're in the room? Not often.'

* * *

(The car arrived to collect Anthea the next afternoon at 3pm precisely. She was not looking forward to the trip, especially after yesterday's little snit. But she had everything planned as usual. Everything except the little box sitting on the leather seat when she got in. She looked at it. She opened it.

Inside was a pair of diamond earrings. They must easily have been two carats each.

Her phone bleeped.

The text was simple.

_ Sorry. M.)_

* * *

_Tomorrow, John gets his chance to dance with Sarah…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 7**

_A/N:So, the Chicken Dance, eh? I am sorry. So, so sorry. Of all the things our culture should have originated... eugh!_

_So, having settled Mycroft for a while, let's get back the wedding reception..._

* * *

He watched Andrew and Sarah have their first dance together, gliding across the floor to some schmaltzy ballad. Then he inserted himself into the queue to dance with the bride. He reached the top about ten minutes after the buffet had been served, but he was lucky that Sarah didn't seem remotely hungry.

'I'd rather dance with a handsome army doctor,' she giggled.

They were playing 'Golden Brown' by the Stranglers, which seemed wholly inappropriate but, on the other hand, was useful in that it was easy to dance to in a dress with a five foot train. He swept her off across the floor in a kind of weird punk waltz, feeling a little disoriented.

Her face had softened in the intervening hours, her makeup melting somewhat. Her features had gone from vivid Oil to soft-focus Watercolour, blending into a gentler whole. Her eyes shone.

'You really do look spectacular,' he told her, slipping arms around her tiny waist, and in that wistful moment, remembering what it had been like to hold her naked. She must have remembered it too, because her body seemed to shape against him in the old way.

'Are you alright? I saw you slip off-'

'Fine. It was lovely. What you did. The toast. He would have hated it, of course, but that's half the reason for doing it, to make him squirm.'

She laughed. 'Yes, he would have squirmed horribly.' Her arm was around his shoulder, her fingertips brushing softly against the back of his neck.

'I'm so glad you're happy,' he said.

'I want you to be happy too.'

'I don't know if that's possible anymore. I think I'd just settle for less _un_-happy right now.'

She gave him a little kiss on the cheek.

'Did he really say all those things to you about Andrew?'

'And an awful lot more besides,' she grinned. 'You know Sherlock, never sugared the pill.'

'Still, it was kind of you to say all that. I'm sure everyone still thinks he was a monster.'

'But we know different, don't we?'

'Yeah, he was just your ordinary pain-in-the-arse genius.'

'And he was _your_ genius.'

'Yeah, mine.'

'You _will_ be happy again one day, John, I promise.'

'The important thing is that _you_ are happy.'

'I am,' she told him, but looked a little sad.

'Don't have any regrets, Sarah. It wouldn't have worked out for us.'

'No.'

'And he's a wonderful man. He adores you. You deserve to be adored.'

'Thank you.'

'I hope he makes you feel the way Sherlock made me feel. The best bits, I mean, not the infuriating bits.'

She laughed. 'Yes, yes he does. Although he can be infuriating too!'

'When you get back from your honeymoon, give me a call. You can tell me how infuriating he's been.'

'Yes, I'd like that,' she laughed, and then the song ended. Reluctantly, he let his hands slip from her waist. For a moment, she looked as if she was about to say something more, but then seemed to think better of it.

'I'd better go and mingle,' she said.

'Yes.'

'Be sure to have fun.'

'Oh, I will. And you.'

* * *

He danced till he ached. He'd forgotten he knew half of the steps he did. He realised he was probably making a bit of a spectacle of himself, but he didn't care. He even danced to 'I'm too sexy', which was beyond preposterous.

There was wine, and then beer, and lager, and whisky. The DJ packed up at midnight. After that, he was in the bar with Andrew's rugger pals from university. There was tequila. Rather a lot of it. He had lost track of Molly some time before. He was pretty sure he hadn't seen her since about half past ten. She had been grinding her bottom against Simon's loins on the dance floor to 'Moves Like Jagger.' He hoped she was getting fucked rotten. Somebody ought to be. Somebody other than the bride, at any rate.

He was a little embarrassed that the thought of Sarah came into his head while the rugger pals were making lewd jokes. He remembered the feel of her breast cupped against his palm, the heat of her body, the way her lips pillowed as she took his cock in her mouth, how she moaned when he was inside her. He was sure he should not be thinking that way about another man's wife. But he couldn't help wondering if Andrew kissed her the way he did, if Andrew made her come as hard as he had.

Then it struck him that this was the first time he had even thought about sex since Sherlock died, and he sat there, pinned against the bar by the wall of sweaty front row forwards, and felt oddly triumphant.

Drunk and faintly giggly, he stumbled up the stairs to his little twin room in the eaves at about 2am. He relieved his bladder in the tiny en suite bathroom, making enough noise to convince the occupants downstairs, had they been awake, that he had a horse in there with him.

The sun had been baking the mansard roof all day, and it was hot and stuffy. He flung open the little dormer window and peered out. The night air was blissfully cool. Somewhere in the trees, an owl was hooting. He peeled his clothes off, and stood nude, letting the draft caress his hot skin. Music was still buzzing through his head. He hummed a little while he poured himself a glass of water from the tap, and knocked back a sachet of Resolve hangover cure against the morning's horrors. Then he flopped naked into bed and was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Love came to him in the depths of the night. Slender arms enfolded him. His body arched up to meet them, recognising his dream lover once again. Sleep had him in her grip, but still his body yearned.

There was no doubt. He knew this man was his own. His Sherlock. Come back to him in the velvet country night. A body made of moonbeams slipping softly into his embrace, weighing on his chest and hips, a tongue of starlight meeting his own.

He moaned.

'Don't ever go, don't ever leave me.'

'Never again,' came the answer, whispered down the corridors of the universe, a silken echo.

There was such need in that long torso as it rocked against him. Even in sleep John knew he was hard, knew the pleasure of friction; of that flat belly scooping against his hot, hard cock, grinding; of those urgent lips, so hungry, gulping and nipping at him, claiming his mouth for their own. Hands slipped down his sides, fingers sank into his muscles. He hung on, gripping the bony shoulders, scoring nail tracks down the nubs of ribs and vertebrae. His lover's cheeks were glossed with tears.

'Love me,' John moaned. 'Love me!'

Tender teeth closed on the skin of his neck, the thin ribbon of pain like a lick of fire. Hips thrust harder, wanton, soft meeting hard. Then kisses, and lips closing over an earlobe, hot breath, panting.

'More, more!'

John's body moving by instinct alone, anchored to his subconscious, pressing up, receiving. A great void had opened up inside him, a gaping abyss of need that only one thing could fill. His dream lover seemed to tumble into it.

John cried out, and came, and stilled, and sleep took him once more, lost in the night, wrapped in the arms of one who loved him more than life itself.

* * *

_Tomorrow: An unexpected awakening…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 8**

_A/N: Sorry for the somewhat erratic postings at the moment. I am in Sussex (yay!) with friends, and its a bit hard to find the usual times. Anyway, we are off to Arundel later to take photos of the settings featured in 'Under the Downs' and 'The Bee House' to post on my tumblr, which you can find at evenlode dot tumblr dot com.  
_

_Ok, you guessed it..._

* * *

Grey morning light formed a shaft that fell through a crack in the dormer curtain and onto the bed. John woke feeling warm and safe, wrapped in love, with only the vaguest sense of his hangover in evidence. After a few minutes basking in pleasure, he realised with shock that he wasn't just wrapped in love, but also in the physical body of another man. Horrified at the thought that he might have seduced one of the other wedding guests into a drunken fling, he let out a yelp and jerked upright, accidentally shoving the man out of bed. He fell onto the floor with a loud crack – it must have hurt.

John peered over the edge of the duvet to see who the interloper was.

Lying on his back on the carpet, stark naked and trying to get his breath back – the fall had winded him – was Sherlock Holmes.

'I deserved that,' he croaked with an unexpected stoicism.

John let out a cry and tumbled over the edge after him, crouching over his lover and smothering him with kisses, then stopped kissing long enough to look at his love, to see that he was a changed man.

To start with, he clearly had not been eating. He was all ribs and angles. In fact, he was thinner even than when they had first met, and John's initial thought was in connection with how long it was going to take him to feed Sherlock up to what he regarded as the detective's proper 'fighting' weight.

He had grown a straggly beard. He was even paler than usual, gaunt, with blue smudges under his sunken eyes. But the worst part was his hair. It had been cropped short, as short as John's, and as the doctor ran his fingers through the soft loops, this loss seemed to him the worst.

'Your beautiful curls,' he moaned, wretchedly.

'They'll grow back,' Sherlock whispered, drawing him down for another tender kiss.

But John couldn't be comforted. He pressed his face into Sherlock's neck and wept a little. Sherlock shivered.

'What's wrong?'

'It's bloody cold out here,' he complained. 'Can't we get back into bed?'

They scrambled back under the duvet, lying face to face in one another's arms.

'This is like sleeping on a scaffolding plank,' Sherlock grumbled. 'Whatever possessed you to get a twin room?'

'Well, if I'd known you were going to resurrect yourself, I'd have booked the bridal suite,' John said, a little piqued.

'You could have simply seduced one of the bridesmaids.'

'Oh, yes, that would have been nice, wouldn't it? Good morning Charlotte or whatever your name is, yes, its 5am and this is my naked, formerly dead, boyfriend Sherlock in the bed with us – I hope we didn't wake you while he was having non-consensual sex with me while I was asleep! Very nice, that would be.'

'As I recall, you were extremely consenting at the time.'

John burrowed his face into Sherlock's somewhat denuded chest. 'How about you take it as read that I am consenting permanently from now on?'

'I shall take that on advice,' Sherlock smiled.

'Don't leave me again,' John whispered.

'I will never leave you again, I swear it.'

'Promise?'

'On the grave of John Wayne Gacy, I swear.'

'Thank you. A simple promise would have been enough.'

'Really?'

'No.'

'Thought not.'

They stared at one another.

'Just tell me why,' John begged.

'Remember the assassins? There were three left, John. The electrician fixing Mrs Hudson's wall light, the visiting Russian detective attached to Lestrade's unit to observe Scotland Yard's methods, and the sniper with his sights trained on you in the street.'

John felt his eyes widen in shock.

'Moriarty said he'd burn the heart out of me, John, and he meant it,' Sherlock went on. 'He made me choose between my reputation and the people I love. If I hadn't been seen to jump that day, you'd all have been dead. I couldn't let that happen – you understand that, don't you?'

John looked up into his love's eyes, bleached almost white with fear and sadness. Sherlock's arms tightened around him, protectively.

'As soon as I realised he was the only one who could call them off, he turned his gun on himself. And then I had no choice at all.'

Wretched, he buried his face in John's neck. 'I'm so, so sorry.'

'It's been eight months. You could have contacted me. You could have told me something-'

'No, you had to believe that I was dead. If they had got the slightest whiff that I was still alive, you'd have been at risk, and my plan would have failed.'

'Your plan?'

'I had to finish him, John. It wasn't enough that he was dead. You know what he was like, he could have left any number of instructions. I had to finish his organisation too. It's taken me longer than I'd hoped, but it's done. You're safe.'

'But I could have helped you-'

'You're not a good enough actor. And you love me too much. Do you really mean to tell me that you could have kept up the kind of mourning you've been going through if you'd known I was alive? We both know that's not possible. I'm just so sorry I hurt you so badly.'

John looked into his eyes, searching.

'You really mean that, don't you?' He breathed after a while.

'Yes.' Sherlock stared at him, unflinching.

'Then why did you say all those things on the phone? Those terrible lies?'

'I wanted you to hate me. I wanted you to go off and be happy and forget me, find somebody else, somebody who would look after you and not risk your life every day. I thought you could be happy without me.'

It was beyond belief. John marvelled at how utterly stupid Sherlock could be sometimes.

'Well, that plan worked out nicely for you, didn't it,' he snapped. 'After everything we've been through, how could you even imagine-'

'Because I'm an idiot.'

Now this was news.

'You just admitted to being an idiot.'

'I've had a lot of time alone to think about it. It's the only logical conclusion.'

John laughed. He couldn't help himself. And then he kissed Sherlock very, very hard. Sherlock hugged him tightly.

'It's been shit without you. I don't know how it even occurred to me that I could live without you. I need you, John. I need you so badly. I hadn't planned to come back, I meant to leave you in peace, but I realised almost immediately that I couldn't. I know you've been through Hell, but please believe me that living without you has been Hell for me too.'

Empathy and contrition. Wonders would never cease. Even if they were mixed with a generous helping of self-pity. Still, never mind, John thought. You can't have everything.

He held Sherlock's head with a hand on either cheek. 'Repeat after me: I, Sherlock Holmes…'

'I, Sherlock Holmes…'

'Am a complete and utter arsehole of the first order…'

'Am a complete – look, do I have to?'

'Yes.'

'A complete and utter arsehole of the first order…'

'And I am abjectly sorry for being so arrogant…'

'…for being so arrogant..'

'As to forget that John Hamish Watson is the love of my life.'

'I _never_ forgot that, John.'

'You did if you ever thought I could live without you, or go off with someone else.'

'I admit it all. And you have the perfect right to throw me out and never speak to me again.'

'And how could I do that, you berk? Have you heard anything I just said?' And he kissed Sherlock deeply. And then pulled away suddenly. 'Hey, how do you know what I've been going through? Have you been watching me?'

Sherlock had the sense to look very ashamed. 'I couldn't help it. Whenever I was in London, I just couldn't stay away from you.'

'So Mycroft has been bugging the flat.'

'No. Well, at least, not that I know of. Mycroft doesn't know.'

'He didn't help you?'

'Of course not! Do you think I would trust him after what he did?' Sherlock pulled his head back violently, and cracked it on the corner of the bedside table. 'Oh, sod! This place is a bloody torture chamber!'

'Well, you deserve it, you sadist,' John growled at him. 'I can't believe you let me go through all that, that you even watched me-'

'I would have helped you if I could, I swear.' Sherlock was rubbing the back of his head.

'I wish I felt inclined to believe you.'

Sherlock huddled closer, miserable. 'Please John. You have the perfect right to send me away, but I'm begging you not to.'

That was too hard. Sherlock begging.

John held him tightly. 'And how do you think that would work, love? Make us both miserable for the rest of our lives? I don't think so. I'm not that proud. I know I should be more angry with you, but I can't help not being. I'm too relieved you're alive.' He covered Sherlock's face with kisses. 'You're all I want, and I don't care what I have to lose to keep you. Other people would probably say I'm a masochist, and maybe I am. All I know is that you're the only thing that makes life worth living.'

'Oh, John.'

They lay wrapped around one another, kissing and gazing into one another's eyes, for what seemed like forever. But eventually sounds around them indicated that the hotel was waking up for the new day. The plumbing groaned and creaked. Breakfast television boomed somewhere. Footsteps sounded on the terrace under the window, and a faint hint of someone's first cigarette of the day drifted up.

Sherlock dragged himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, hanging his head.

'I should go.'

'What? You can't!'

He took up John's hand and pressed it to his lips. 'Nobody knows I'm alive yet,' he said. 'I can't just announce myself to a bunch of complete strangers before I've let the rest of the important people in my life know, it wouldn't be right.'

'Who are you and what have you done with my Sherlock?' John said in disbelief.

'I'm sorry.' He pulled on his pants and trousers, shrugged his shirt on over his bony shoulders. John ran his hand underneath the cotton, stroking the smooth skin.

'I wanted to feed you bacon and sausage.'

'Another day,' he promised.

'When will I see you again?' He rested his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder. Sinuous fingers slipped through his hair fondly.

'I'll be at Baker Street when you get home.'

'Really?' John looked up into his eyes, pleading.

'You want me to swear it again?'

'You can't blame me for not wanting to let you out of my sight,' John pointed out.

'What time does your train get in?'

'3.05 at Paddington. Another hour for the Tube, given it's a Sunday, I'll be home by, say, 4.'

'Take a taxi.'

'I can't afford to without your income, you prat.'

'Splash out. It's a special occasion.' Sherlock got up and pulled on a tan leather jacket that had seen better days. John had to admit he looked nothing like himself. Take away the stylised affectations of long, dark curls, sharp suit and billowing overcoat, and the man was unrecognisable as the consultant detective. No wonder he had never been spotted. John got out of bed and slipped his arms around Sherlock's neck. There was something deeply arousing about being completely naked when Sherlock was dressed. Maybe that was an idea to salt away for future reference.

'John, you're hard.'

'I know. It's your fault. I haven't had an erection since you – left.' He ground his hips against Sherlock, who moaned and kissed him.

'I'm never going to get away at this rate.'

'Did you notice me complaining?'

'Please, John?' Sherlock's hands ran down his back, cupped his buttocks hungrily, the direct opposite of what he claimed he wanted to do.

'I'm yours, Sherlock,' John breathed hotly into his ear. 'Don't you ever forget that. All yours.'

Sherlock whimpered. 'You're determined to torture me, aren't you?'

'That's rich, coming from you! Anyway, I'm the one who has to sit on a train with a raging hard-on.'

Sherlock kissed him, his tongue searching deep into John's mouth.

'Have a wank in the shower, then,' he whispered.

'That won't make any difference if I know you're going to be there when I get home.'

'So you _do_ trust me.' He could feel Sherlock grinning against his neck. 'Baker Street at 4. I'll put the kettle on.'

And then he was gone.

John stood in the middle of the sunlit carpet feeling rather dizzy, though he could as much attribute this to his hangover and the diversion of blood away from his brain as the fact that his dead lover had just been in his bed. But then, that was Sherlock. With Sherlock Holmes, anything could happen, and usually did.

'Looks like it's a wank in the shower then,' he said to himself.

* * *

_Tomorrow, breakfast, and Molly's hangover..._


	9. Chapter 9

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 9**

_A/N: Thank you especially today for all your positive reviews, having just got a really bad, stupid and wholly inaccurate one on The Case of the Cuddle. I shouldn't moan, but it annoys me when people put in negative reviews instead of constructive criticism, and which then put others off reading something they might enjoy. This makes me appreciate all the more those people who take the time to review thoughtfully in ways that help me to build my writing into something better.  
_

_(OK Rant over)  
_

_I'm thrilled that so many of you enjoyed yesterday's helping. I hope this makes you happy.  
_

_Beware: Incoming full English breakfast with tea and toast, and a large helping of schmaltz...  
_

* * *

He was sitting at breakfast, munching toast, when Molly tottered in. She looked substantially the worse for wear, but she was glowing. She sat down opposite him, and the waitress came forward.

'Full English, madam?'

Molly groaned. 'Just coffee, please.'

The waitress bustled away. There was a pleasing hum of conversation amongst the other guests. Warm sunlight played into the breakfast room from the broad sash windows. It was extremely elegant.

'I'm guessing you didn't get much sleep,' John grinned at her.

She grinned back.

'Shagged him into the mattress, I hope,' John said, poring himself another cup of tea.

'It was heaven,' she sighed.

'Good. Nobody deserves a good shag more than you, Moll,' he said, offering her his groaning toast rack. 'You should eat something, it'll help the hangover.'

'How can you eat after all that tequila you put away?' She looked at the toast as if he was offering her a rabid dog.

'Army constitution,' he shrugged. 'Do enough mess dinners, and you can stomach pretty much anything the next day.'

'You look happy.'

He smiled. 'I think I had a breakthrough.'

'What kind?'

'I don't know - maybe I just needed to remember that life could be fun, and it wasn't betraying him to enjoy it a bit.'

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. 'Good.'

Just at that moment, John caught sight of Simon over Molly's shoulder as he came into the room. He looked every bit as rough as Molly, but had that same post-coital idiot grin on his face. Something told John this wasn't just a one-night stand.

'Oops, cavie,' he said.

She frowned. 'What?'

'Lover boy, three o'clock high.' He twitched his head at where Simon was saying good morning to a gaggle of elderly relatives. 'Bet they'd blow a gasket if they knew what he was up to last night.'

Molly giggled and then held her head. 'Oh, God,' she groaned.

'Your doctor prescribes a large fried breakfast,' he grinned.

'You _are_ trying to kill me, aren't you?'

'Death by bacon and eggs. There are worse ways to go.'

'I can't think of one right now, and I'm a pathologist!'

Simon approached their table, swinging his hips. John had a moment to appreciate just what a good-looking man he was, with his crop of dark hair, pale eyes, and strong, muscular figure. Just Molly's type, he thought. Sherlock-esque. By which rule, he ought to find him attractive too, but he didn't – at least not in that way. Which was definitely a good thing, since he was taken.

Simon leant down and kissed Molly on the lips, and they smiled at one another in a gooey way. Then he looked up and grinned at John.

'Sleep well?'

John laughed. 'Better than you two, I think.'

Simon actually blushed. He turned to Molly, his hand on the back of her chair, taking his weight. 'How are you feeling?'

'I've been better.'

'Never mind. Couple of paracetamol and a good breakfast is what you need.'

'You see,' John said. 'I told you.'

'Look, I was wondering, what time are you going back to London? Only I could give you a lift, if you want.'

Molly looked at John, torn. 'Well, we're booked on the same train, it's about twelve, isn't it, John?'

John suddenly felt a wave of happiness for her. He probably wouldn't have felt so generous had he not known that Sherlock would be waiting for him when he got home, but even so, he was genuinely delighted that Molly was getting a break, romantically.

'Look, don't worry about me, I'm fine. You go with Simon. I'm sure he'll be a lot better company.'

'Oh, don't,' Molly said, reaching to squeeze his hand again. 'I feel bad now.'

'Come on, I've got lots to think about, I just said so, didn't I? Breakthrough and all that? Don't worry, it'll do me good.'

'That's settled then,' Simon grinned, and kissed Molly's cheek. 'Meet you in reception about 11 then?'

She nodded and he strode off to join another table of relatives.

John and Molly looked at one another and burst out laughing.

'You're terrible,' she giggled.

'Never one to stand in the way of true lust, that's all,' he smirked. And then the waitress arrived with his fry-up.

* * *

John was sitting on the train, happy and alone, contemplating the near future, and the definite promise of sex and copious cuddles in it, when the text message alert bleeped on his phone. It was from an unknown number and it wasn't signed, but it didn't matter. He knew who it was from:

**Oh, for fuck's sake, are you going to marry me or what?**

It actually made him laugh out loud, which frightened the little old lady who was sitting in the seat opposite. He blushed and apologised, which seemed to make her even more panicky. He texted back.

_Only if you ask nicely, J_

The response arrived almost instantly:

**What, down on one knee, all that rubbish?**

_Yep, all that rubbish. I'm not as easy as you think, you know._

**I have housemaid's knee.**

_Liar._

**I love you.**

_I know._

**So marry me.**

_Say please._

**Please?**

_Oh, alright then, but I'm not wearing a dress._

**But you'd look so cute.**

_What did we say about that word?_

**Well, I can't help it, you would. Did I mention that I love you?**

_Not often enough lately._

**I do. I love you. I love you. I love you. Is that enough?**

_Call me needy, but no. I don't think I'll ever have heard you say that enough._

**I love you to the ends of the earth. I love you to the gates of Hell and back. I love you till the world fades into nothingness and the stars fall and the Universe ends.**

_You're getting the idea now. You'd better be there when I get home._

**Here already. There's no milk.**

_Never mind. For once, tea won't be my first priority._

* * *

_Tomorrow: meanwhile Mycroft prepares to leave for New York...  
_


	10. Chapter 10

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 10**

_A/N: Thank you so much to everyone for your support yesterday, especially to those who 'buried' the negative review. I am completely overwhelmed by the goodwill in this fandom. I really was not upset by the review itself, but I was angry on behalf of those less able to withstand such a lack of thought and empathy. We need to take a stand on this, and __**make our fandom a zero tolerance area for this kind of behaviour**__. _

_I'm putting a post on my tumblr site – evenlode dot tumblr dot com – about it, and I'd be grateful if you would reblog and disseminate it if you agree, so that we can protect all the writers who put so much time and effort into making such wonderful stories for us to read – FREE!_

_In response to a few comments – yes, John is taking this well at the moment. Too well. Believe me, things will get more complicated but that this point, I think he is just so relieved to have Sherlock back and alive that he's happy. Lots of people mentioned the sexual dysfunction. Right now that doesn't feature much, but it is something the boys will have to deal with. And incidentally, regarding daily postings – I don't write fast. I finish the story before I start posting it, which means I can guarantee you get your daily dose and also that the quality is consistent. Fiendish, eh?_

_Anyway, my luvlies, here is your next episode. Hang onto your hats. As Gorgeous George would say: "this is gonna get messy!"_

* * *

As part of the new entente, Mycroft had allowed Greg to come along and see him off for New York. He was taking the Lear jet from City airport, so it was not far, but it was a significant step. Greg felt like he had made progress. And judging by the look on Anthea's face when he got into the back seat next to his partner, he was not the only one. She slipped him a knowing smile when Mycroft was not looking. He noticed that she was wearing some rather impressive diamond earrings. They must have cost a fortune. He wondered who the new boyfriend with deep pockets was.

There was barely any traffic, and Clive, Mycroft's regular driver, drove smoothly. Greg watched Anthea and Mycroft going through their briefcases, checking documents. Mycroft's thigh pressed against his own. The sun shone. Even though his lover was going away, it felt like a good day to be alive. Greg felt optimistic. Mycroft had promised to take a holiday for one thing, which was cause for celebration in itself.

'We could go to the house in Antigua,' he had suggested while Greg was cleaning his teeth that morning, slipping his arms around the inspector's waist fondly.

'What house in Antigua?' Greg frowned.

'Oh, I've got this house. A friend left it to me. It's quite nice, but I haven't been for years. I just let it as a holiday villa.'

'Hang on, hang on, just a minute-' Greg squirmed in his arms until they were facing one another. 'Can we just go back a bit there? You have a house in Antigua?'

'Yes.'

'In Antigua. As in the Caribbean?'

'Yes.'

'Caribbean, as in white sands and palm trees?'

'I suppose so, yes.'

'You tell me this _now_?'

'I didn't think you'd be interested.'

'Not interested? _Not interested_? Which part of you do I have to suck to get you to take me there _right now_?'

So that was agreed. (At least, after the sucking was concluded.) Antigua. Greg was already planning how much factor 30 he would have to pack. And whether they could fly the kids over for a week in the summer holidays.

He was musing on this thought when he noticed a change in the atmosphere in the car. Anthea was checking her phone with an urgent expression. She glanced up at Mycroft.

'Sir?' Clive's voice came from the front seat.

'Yes?'

'We have a code Blue, sir.'

Mycroft and Anthea exchanged looks. Anthea opened her laptop and logged into a site Greg had not seen before. He realised it gave her a high resolution view out of the rear of their car. Two solid-looking dark Mondeos were behind them.

'Give the alert, and take evasive action,' Mycroft said coolly, after a brief look at the screen. The car began to subtly speed up.

'They're definitely following us,' Anthea said.

'Can you get an ID on the registrations?'

'Just sending the data through, sir,' she said, tapping the keyboard.

'What's going on?' Greg asked, feeling the tension rise.

'We appear to have company.'

The car careered around a sharp corner, and the passengers grabbed at the upholstery to stabilise themselves.

'They're not backing off,' Clive said.

'Go to code Red,' Mycroft barked. Anthea started scrabbling in her capacious handbag. She pulled out an automatic pistol and checked the clip. Greg goggled at the metallic sheen of the barrel, then became aware that Mycroft had opened a deep compartment at the front of the limousine's passenger cabin.

'You've done the firearms course, haven't you, Greg?' He pulled a machine pistol and another handgun from what looked to Greg like a terrifying collection hidden under the innocuous looking padded box.

'Erm, yeah, years back.'

Mycroft pulled out an ammunition clip and loaded the pistol, then offered it, butt first, his hand gripping the barrel, to his lover. The engine had begun to roar. They were going incredibly fast.

'Stay close to me, and if anything happens, shoot to kill, understand?'

Greg nodded. He took the gun from his lover's hand. It had a sinister weight in his palm.

There was a sudden crackle, and a pinging from behind the seat. Greg twisted round and saw a man leaning out of the car behind them, aiming a gun. His gut clenched in horror.

'Who are these people?'

'I think we shall find out soon enough,' Mycroft said as the car lurched through another ninety degree turn. 'The nice thing about these new Mercedes is that they can leave a Ford like that standing on a straight.'

'Trouble is, we aren't on a straight,' Anthea growled. 'Where the hell is that back-up?'

'I still prefer the old Bentley Mulsanne,' Mycroft went on. 'That was a car with character as well as balls.'

More bullets rattled off the boot.

'Not sure that the bullet-proofing was quite as good, though,' he observed.

'Yes, sir,' Anthea agreed. She had moved up from a growl to a snarl. 'Shame you totalled it.'

'Ah, yes,' said Mycroft with a wistful smile. 'Those were the days! We've had to rein in the spending since the Coalition got in.'

At which point, all hell broke loose.

They were in the heart of the Square Mile now, amongst canyons of office buildings. They rounded a curve and came upon a brewery delivery lorry, backed up to one of the many bars that populated the street levels below the trading floors. The lorry driver was just in the process of pulling up the vinyl covers on the side of his truck. He saw the limo just in time, and flung himself out of the way. Clive jagged the wheel, but they were going too fast. The tyres screamed, the vehicle spun and they hit the undercarriage of the truck side on, crushing in underneath.

* * *

_Tomorrow – well, now, that would spoil it for you, wouldn't it…_


	11. Chapter 11

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 11**

_A/N: Thank you once again to everybody who reviewed and commented so positively, and to all those new followers and favouriters. I'm so grateful. Don't forget to circulate my post about Zero Tolerance reviewing from evenlode dot tumblr dot com._

_Ok, I admit I was a bit mean leaving you like that yesterday, but you loved it really, didn't you? (evil cackle)  
_

_So now, where were we? Oh, yes:_

_The tyres screamed, the vehicle spun and they hit the undercarriage of the truck side on, crushing in underneath..._

* * *

The next thing Greg was aware of was the crackle of gunfire, and a firm hand on his collar, dragging him out through a hail of glass fragments. Reeling, he staggered to his feet, and was running, or being dragged, with bullets whistling in the air around him. He had lost his gun in the impact, and he was aware of hot liquid running down his cheek. He saw the flash of Mycroft's grey suit ahead of him, and he followed it, pumping his legs as fast as he could, his mind blank of anything except the desire to survive.

They slammed through a fire door and found themselves in a service corridor with bleak walls of polished concrete. Mycroft snatched his mobile out of his pocket and dialled a number, pressed enter and tucked it away again. His eyes were wide as he looked around, assessing the territory for defensible positions, holding his gun up in readiness.

'Myc, wha-'

'Shh,' Mycroft hissed, signalling that they might be heard. There was a thunder of running feet. Mycroft swore under his breath and pushed Greg ahead of him. They pounded down the corridor and swung round the turn at the end. Mycroft crouched down to defend his corner. Greg threw his back to the wall and tried valiantly to get his breath back. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. Being a copper is one thing, but being in a full-scale gun-battle is quite another.

They heard footsteps thump up the corridor towards them. Mycroft took the shot. The man was still moving at full speed when he was hit. Blood spurted over the opposite wall, and he dropped. There was another, close behind. He saw his companion fall, but was moving too fast. He couldn't save himself from Mycroft's next shot.

Mycroft looked round at Greg and nodded to the fire escape sign.

'Stairs,' he hissed. 'Now!'

Greg didn't need telling twice. He was clattering down the steps almost before he knew it. Mycroft slipped through the door and pressed his back to the wall. Another assailant burst through and never lived to regret it. The bullet hit him in the back of the neck and the force of impact propelled him over the bannister and into the stairwell.

Greg glanced back up and saw Mycroft push away from the wall just as a second man came through the door. Mycroft knocked his gun from his hand, and it clattered over the edge. The man screamed with rage, and caught Mycroft a heavy blow that knocked his gun away too. Greg saw it sail past him into the darkness below. The assailant launched himself at Mycroft, and they crashed backwards into the wall, and then rolled down the concrete stairs. Greg realised his only hope of helping was to get to the bottom and grab one of the fallen guns. He began to run, not looking back even though he heard the cracking of bones and the thuds of punches. Just as he was on the second turn he looked up and saw Mycroft and the other man tumble into the wall. Mycroft got the rough side - he was back first, and the man charged into him, his shoulder hitting the elder Holmes's diaphragm and flinging him against the concrete like a rag doll. Instead of crumpling, though, Mycroft's eyes flared and he raised his fists, clasping them together, and bought them smartly down on the man's neck several times until he crumpled. Mycroft grabbed his hair, jerking the man back, but they were on the edge of the top step and Greg could see the inevitable result of this misbalance. Struggling, fists at one another's throats, the two of them went over the bannister.

Greg was faintly aware of a noise in his throat, and afterwards realised that he must have screamed. He was not sure how far he ran and how far he fell down those last three flights.

At the bottom, to his amazement, the two men were still struggling for their lives, staggering over the broken body of the third, two pairs of hands straining against one another for control of a gun they had picked up.

Greg did the only thing he could think of. He used the momentum of the flight of stairs, throwing himself off the last landing and into Mycroft's assailant, knocking him for six. The man sprawled under Greg for a moment, and the inspector flailed, trying to get upright. Then Mycroft was on top of them both. Greg craned around, and looked up in time to see Mycroft grip the man's head with both hands and twist it smartly to one side. There was a sickening crackle of gristle and bone, and the man was suddenly horribly still.

There was a moment of suspended silence between them.

Mycroft slithered back, slumping against the wall, his chest heaving. Greg pushed the dead man away and sat up, dragged his hand through his hair. Mycroft dabbed his nose with his fingers and then looked down at his shirt front, which was covered in blood. Greg realised his lover's nose was probably broken at the same time that Mycroft obviously did.

'Oh bugger,' the elder Holmes said. 'Not again.'

He managed to lever himself up by gripping onto one of the iron newel posts. He was holding his side. He winced.

Greg stumbled to his feet, reeling.

'Fuck,' he gasped.

There was an explosive bang at the top of the staircase, and the thunder of feet. Mycroft snatched up the gun from the floor and raised the muzzle, only to be faced with a dense pack of black-clad armed response officers as they rounded the turn of the stairs.

'SIS!' he shouted at them, letting the pistol fall to his side. 'Where the hell were you lot?'

The men came to a tumbling stop, the ones at the back bumping into the ones at the front, their eyes wide with shock at being spoken to this way. Then there was another bang and more footsteps, this time lighter. Anthea appeared, blood streaming from a cut in her head. She was holding up her gun, though, clearly undented by the experience.

'You okay, sir?'

'I think I may need a change of shirt,' Mycroft told her. 'You?'

'Just a bit bruised, sir, thanks. How many did you get?'

'Four.' A rustle of approval went through the armed officers. 'Where are the rest?'

'We got two at the top, but there were two more at least.'

'Well, get the alert team on it. If and when they finally turn up. I need to know who this lot were.' He turned to Greg. 'You okay?'

Greg was leaning against the bannister, feeling dizzy with emotion. Mycroft turned to the gang of coppers.

'Bugger off, you lot, give us some space.'

They filed back up the stairs, muttering. Anthea had already disappeared. Mycroft took a step towards Greg.

'What the fuck was that?' Greg breathed as Mycroft moved close to him, touching his cheek tenderly.

'One of the hazards of the job, I'm afraid,' he smiled. A meaty bruise was starting to develop around his eye.

'That's one hell of a shiner you are going to have there,' Greg said, with a weak laugh.

Mycroft rubbed his side. 'It's the ribs I'm more worried about,' he said. 'I'm getting too old for this.'

They stared at one another.

'You'd fucking better take me to Antigua now, you bastard,' Greg said.

Then Mycroft gave Greg a rather blood-smeared kiss, and they clung together in silent relief.

* * *

_Tomorrow, John returns home to Baker Street..._


	12. Chapter 12

**Three Weddings Part1**

**Chapter 12**

_A/N: Thank you as always to everyone who reviewed and favourited. I'm so glad you liked my 007 Mycroft. I've always thought he was an underused heavy, and I love the idea of him being a secret hard man!_

_And now we are returning to the schmaltz..._

* * *

He took a taxi.

Of course he took a taxi. He could barely stop himself running when his feet hit the platform at Paddington. No Sunday afternoon scramble round the Underground for John. Not today. Not ever again. He was going to take taxis everywhere. He was going to sit on every bench seat of every taxi in Greater London and he wasn't going to do it alone. Ever. Again.

The flat was silent and stuffy. Mrs Hudson was staying at her sister's. He raced up the stairs, burst through the door, dropped his bag and stood there, panting.

Nothing.

'Sherlock?'

No answer. He took a couple of steps forward.

'Are you there?'

His heart lurched.

'Fuck,' he muttered. 'Am I having hallucinations now? Am I going fucking mad?'

And then he was no longer alone.

He didn't have to turn around. He could feel, actually _feel_ Sherlock behind him.

His breath struck in his throat. He wondered if there would ever again be a time that knowing Sherlock was near would not be a thrill.

Cool fingers laced through his own. Led him to the sofa. Laid him down.

'Do you remember?' Soft words whispered. That delicate, slightly lop-sided smile.

'The first time we lay here together?' John felt the long, strong body slip against him, arms tighten around his waist, a cushion manoeuvred under his head. 'Yes, I remember.'

Sherlock gazed into his eyes. 'I loved you, even then,' he breathed.

John cupped the pale cheek in his hand. Sherlock had shaved. That hideous straggly beard was gone. He was smooth and beautiful again. John felt his eyes prick.

'You snored.' He tried to smile.

'Did not,' Sherlock bridled.

'You did. Like a bloody hog.'

'You weighed a ton,' the previously-dead detective snapped back.

'I was waterlogged.'

Sherlock laughed. It sounded like bells to John, like those magical chiming notes in 'The Clangars' from when he was a kid.

'I said I thought cuddling had its merits,' Sherlock smiled, tenderly.

'Does recent data support the same conclusion?'

'Oh, yes.' He nuzzled his head in under John's chin and, with a huge sigh, his body softened against him. John pressed his face into Sherlock's denuded hair.

'Did you mean what you said,' he whispered after a while.

'About loving you till the stars go out? Yes.'

'You sloppy git.'

'_Your_ sloppy git.'

'Yes. Mine. Sherlock?'

'Mmm?'

'Let's not make love tonight? Let's just hold one another. Like we used to. Let's pretend it's just a normal Sunday night. Like none of this ever happened, and you've never been away.'

Sherlock ran his hand across John's chest. 'Order in Chinese?'

'If you like.'

'And watch whatever costume drama's on?'

'You and your Sunday night costume dramas.'

'You know you love it.'

John laughed. 'Yeah, like a hole in the head!'

Sherlock sighed, his breath ghosting John's throat.

'Welcome home,' John whispered.

* * *

'This is ridiculous,' Sherlock said.

John held out another spoonful. 'I don't see why.'

'We're behaving like love-addled teenagers.'

'I think we have a right to,' John told him, jerking the spoon. 'Eat!'

Sherlock closed his mouth around the spoon's bowl and slurped its contents off.

'It's pure, empty calories,' he said, licking his lips. 'Junkies live on this stuff, you know.'

'You're lucky I'm not force-feeding you with lard at this point.'

'Have you read the label? This pretty much _is_ lard.'

'Hardly.' John shovelled some more ice cream onto the spoon.

'Tell me, why would you have a tub of Luxury triple chocolate ice cream with dark Belgian chocolate nuggets and a rich chocolate fondant sauce, just hanging about in the freezer?'

'I had bad days,' John said and threatened Sherlock with another spoonful. 'Did you exist on this stuff when you were using?'

'Nothing so posh.' Sherlock slurped the melting brown custard up. 'I'm a vanilla purist myself.'

Some of the chocolate sauce was smeared on Sherlock's deliciously plump lower lip. John had to fight the urge to suck it off with every ounce of moral fibre he had.

He said: 'This is the difference between us, right here in a tub of ice cream. You are the ascetic, denying yourself the sensual pleasure of life, whereas I am the Epicurean, the hedonist, revelling in the senses, enjoying all that life has to offer. This ice cream is a transcendent metaphor for our philosophies.'

He scooped up some more and held it out. Sherlock examined the spoon, going almost cross-eyed because it was so close to his face.

'I'm not denying that you have opened my mind to the sensuous,' he said, and stuck out his tongue. He let the rosy pink tip tickle the edge of the spoon, coating it with sauce, then spread it out to its full width and licked up the chocolaty mound on top, squirming it around, spiralling the bowl, half closing his eyes as if in ecstasy.

'Oh, fuck,' John growled. The spoon clattered on the floor.

* * *

(In the morning, they found the best part of three quarters of a tub of Luxury triple chocolate ice cream with Belgian dark chocolate nuggets and chocolate fondant sauce melted into the floorboards. The brown stain would never come out. Every time John noticed it, he was struck with an insatiable desire to smother Sherlock's belly with ice cream.)

* * *

_Tomorrow, the Lady in Sherlock's life..._


	13. Chapter 13

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 13**

_A/N: Thank you for all your lovely reviews. I apologise for the offense caused to die-hard 'Clangers' fans as a result of my miss-spelling. My only excuse is that the spell-checker on Word does not recognise Oliver Postgate productions, which I think is very remiss of them. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go and Google. You have the biggest delight of your life waiting for you. Soup Dragon Rules, people!_

_And now, without further ado, Sherlock has a predictably wakeful night ahead of him..._

* * *

In the small hours of the night, Sherlock slipped from his lover's bed, and slithered into his old silk wrap, which John had kept hanging on the back of the door in feeble hope that he might one day return. Well, now he had. He glanced back at the sandy head, nearly lost in bedclothes. A pang went through him. It was torture to leave John even now, when he knew he had returned for good. But necessary.

There were two things Sherlock had yearned for during his long exile. One was John. The other was his Strad. And no matter how much he loved John (and he did), the Lady in his life was calling to him from her coffin of red velvet in the living room.

He padded barefoot down the stairs and stood for a moment in the doorway, allowing himself to absorb one more time that he really was home for good.

Home. Sherlock had never really had a home. Not one to which he felt sufficiently attached to feel homesick for. Homesickness was a malady he had experienced for the first time in recent months. He was taken by surprise by its ragged agony, and by the fact that no matter how much he tried to reason it away, it still wouldn't go. Home was now a fixture in his life, the place where John was, the place where Mrs Hudson was, and more. It had the specific shape of these rooms, their smell of chemicals and tea, their dusty, paper-strewn surfaces, the stupid ox skull hanging on the wall with John's headphones clamped to it. Even the hideous wallpaper – and there were no words for how much he hated that wallpaper. He walked around the room once more, at liberty now he was alone, running a fond fingertip over the mess, the junk, the familiarity of it, savouring the moment, drawing it out. He flipped through a couple of books, examined his skull, leafed through the unread letters pinned to the mantel with the hunting knife, and skewered them once more, happy deep in his soul that all was right with his world. And when he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the dark case that sat on the lower shelf, ran his hands over the wooden lid, brushing off the dust, preparing himself for the moment of reunion.

The Lady Belle had belonged to his grandfather. It was the only thing he had in common with the sixth Viscount. Sherlock remembered him vaguely as a haze of Harris tweed and stale pipe smoke, a man with a moustache stained yellow with nicotine. He had died when Sherlock was still quite young, and the violin had passed to him, since Sherlock's father had been a pianist by temperament.

Sherlock loved the violin.

It was family legend that the only time the infant Sherlock had stopped crying was when Grandfather Holmes played. (Right from birth, he had been trouble, his mother always pointed out.) In a last desperate attempt to quiet the caterwauling, Nanny had installed a record player in the nursery, and the Old Man had selected records from his personal collection for the sole purpose of shutting the little brat up. Against the odds, it worked.

By the time he was crawling, Sherlock was capable of unheard-of feats of concentration for a child so small. When the records started, he would roll onto his back on his playmat or in the cot, and listen with rapt attention to Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelsohn, his eyes focussed on some distant point unseen by others. 'Strad' was reputed to have been his first word, though this was hardly a surprise since he barely, if ever, saw his parents, whose epithets would normally have been his first. 'Nanny' of course, was his second. (John always conjectured that either 'murder' or 'trouble' had been his third!)

He had been too small to share the Old Man's passion for hunting, shooting and fishing as Mycroft, being that bit older, had. Sherlock wouldn't have been interested anyway. He had always preferred to be inside with a book, and did not have Mycroft's native cunning for picking out ways to worm into someone's affections. Mycroft had inherited therefore not only his grandfather's title, but also his impressive collection of flintlocks and hunting rifles, which he treasured. It was widely agreed that it was lucky Mycroft did not have a musical bone in his body because if he had, there would have been a fight to the death over the Lady Belle.

The Lady herself (for a Stradivarius is always given the female gender) was the only object that had accompanied Sherlock throughout his entire life –apart from Mycroft of course, but he didn't count. No matter what trouble Sherlock had got into, the Lady Belle was always there to comfort him. Even Nanny suggested that 'that bloody violin' was like a mother to him. In the dark days following his sister's and father's deaths, and after the trauma of his rape, the Strad had been his only friend. He had played long mournful melodies through the dark hours to fend off the nightmares. The Lady helped him to think, to hone his brain, sharpen his skills of analysis and deduction. There was something about the mathematical patterns of the music he played that tapped into his brain, giving him access to reserves he could have reached no other way. Perhaps that was why he was such a genius. Formidable intelligence had been nurtured by musical precocity.

Months apart from John had also been months apart from the Strad, and though Sherlock was sure that the former had been the greater misery, he was well aware that his anguish had been exacerbated by the loss of the Lady. He had bought a cheap violin one day in desperation, a paper-thin Japanese trainer instrument from a glorified porn brokers, but when he got it back to his grubby little B&B, brimming with expectation, it had sounded so horrendous that he had thrown it at the wall and smashed it, and sobbed for an hour afterwards. It was true, then. A Strad ruined you for anything else. He could not bear the nasty, cheesegrater sound of those cheap strings after the fruitiness of the Master's progeny.

He gently opened the case. The rich, resinous scent of her rose into his face. He closed his eyes and breathed it in as deeply as he could, the smell of his childhood. Tenderly, he lifted her out of her silk velvet bed, and ran his fingers over her shimmering golden body, plucked the strings to check they were sound – only slight tuning needed, to his amazement, for this was the longest she had ever been left unplayed, at least in his lifetime. He positioned her under his chin, relishing the coolness of the smooth wood on the fleshy underside of his law. He lifted out the bow, held it delicately in his fingers, feeling its weight, the cantilever of its length. Then he tuned The Lady Belle by ear, because he had perfect pitch, plucking softly, so as not to wake John. And turned to the music stand.

Yellowed from sitting in daylight for over eight months, the sheet music on the top was an obscure piece by Paganini that Sherlock had been learning in those last days before his fall. As soon as he opened the front page, he knew he could never play it again. It was redolent of the misery, the sense of doom and impending loss that had impregnated those final days with his love. No, no more Paganini for Sherlock Holmes. Better to play from memory. But what? And then a piece sprang into his mind, fully formed, and perfect. He raised the bow with a contented flourish and opened his heart to the Lady in his life.

* * *

John turned over onto his back and came to, faintly aware that something had woken him, but not sure what. When he reached out, the pillow was empty, the sheet cold. He glanced at the clock – 4am, Sherlock's witching hour.

And that was when he heard it.

Sherlock was playing. He knew the music immediately, though he had never heard it before he had come to Baker Street. It was Solveig's Song from Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite, the delicate air that Sherlock played when he was in a wistful, contented mood. It was rare to hear that melody, but it was a sign.

Sherlock was home.

* * *

_Tomorrow, someone else comes home to Baker Street..._


	14. Chapter 14

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 14**

_A/N: Okay, I geddit, I need a proof reader! Seriously thank you to everyone who reads and comments with such eagle eyes. Still, I'm not sorry I wrote 'porn broker' instead of 'pawn broker', Mirith. We had a great laugh over that one last night!_

_Okay, on with the show. I think there is a word in this one that might provoke a little debate…_

* * *

Monday morning dawned bright and warm. Not that Sherlock and John noticed. They were curled up together in John's bed, enjoying the best sleep either of them had had in eight months. At least until Mrs Hudson came home.

The first they knew of it, there was the familiar hooting from below.

'John! Yoohoo! John! Jean's been baking all weekend, I've got you a Victoria sandwich and some fairy cakes!'

John opened his eyes wide. Sherlock swore under his breath. Both of them sprang out of bed and scrabbled for something to make themselves decent, while heels clicked inexorably up the flight to the top room.

'John, dear, are you alright?'

Since Sherlock's death, Mrs Hudson had taken to coming and going even more freely than she used to, ostensibly to make sure John was eating, though she had admitted once to him that she was afraid she might come up the stairs one day and find that he had died of grief in the night. This was why she had no qualms about waltzing into his bedroom at ten o'clock on a Monday morning with a cake tin in her hands. She hadn't been expecting to see the flat's formerly deceased occupant dragging his pants up his scrawny thighs.

A terrible shriek.

The cake tin rattled on the floorboards.

John felt her scream go through him like ten thousand volts. Mrs Hudson lurched against the door frame. Only half-decent, Sherlock leapt forward and caught her in his arms, burying his face in the curve of her neck as she wailed:

'My boy! My poor boy!'

And then John heard what probably only John Watson could or would have heard, the single syllable whispered by those impossibly curved lips that encapsulated everything that the detective felt for his much put-upon landlady.

'Mum.'

They collapsed onto the end of the bed, Sherlock holding the old lady in his arms like a frightened child as she clung to him, kneading his pale flesh as if to be sure he really was there. Her fingers left red marks. He rocked her gently, cooing, as she pressed her cheek to his, then thrust away and gave him a sound thump on the chest.

'You wicked, wicked boy! You wicked, cruel creature! How could you do that to poor John! How could you?'

He folded her against him once more, though she fought weakly, and murmured tenderly in her ear. John saw the tears on both their cheeks and decided it was all too much for him.

'Tea,' he mouthed at Sherlock and escaped to the kitchen, leaving them to their reunion. As he slipped out, he heard Mrs Hudson's ever practical voice say,

'Hadn't you better put come clothes on? Sitting here with all your bits hanging out, Sherlock, it's not decent!'

Which made John smile and feel that, somehow, all would be well with the world.

* * *

Sherlock almost looked like his old self. Properly shaven, and back in his old clothes, carefully preserved by John, he stood at the window, looking down onto the street below. The light caught his cheekbone, though, emphasizing the deep cavity underneath, the way his eyes had sunk into their sockets, the more obvious sinews in his neck.

'You really need feeding up,' John told him fondly.

He could see Sherlock was watching something going on down there, watching intently.

'You sure Mycroft isn't having the flat watched?'

'Don't think so. I haven't spoken to him since the funeral, but I thought I made it clear that I didn't want any more surveillance.'

'Hmmm.'

'What is it?'

'Down there.' Sherlock nodded. John walked over to the other window, and looked down. 'See him, the redhead?'

'Yes.'

'Seen him before?'

'No.'

'I have.' Sherlock glanced up, raised one eyebrow in his familiar quizzical way.

John grinned.

In seconds, the door slammed behind them.

* * *

John's blood was fizzing in his veins as he strode along behind Sherlock, having to trot every dozen steps or so to keep up because Sherlock's stride was so much longer than his own. He didn't mind. He felt alive, fully alive, for the first time in months. In fact, he hadn't felt this good since their last night together, since the hand cuffs, and Sherlock shouting 'Take my hand!' as they raced away from the police and into the darkness.

'Where are we going?'

'No idea,' Sherlock said, his gaze unwavering, intent on the street ahead. 'Wherever he will follow us, I suppose. If he's following us. He is, isn't he?'

John had long ago perfected the technique of looking behind without looking, of seeing and not being seen to see. 'Yep.'

But of course, Sherlock knew that. He smirked.

'Don't gloat, you smug bastard,' John said.

'Wouldn't dream of it.' Sherlock tossed him a wry glance.

They crossed town by a circuitous route, doubling back on themselves, taking the long way round, and then the short way, and then the scenic route. When they had been walking for nearly two hours, Sherlock observed:

'Persistent git, isn't he?'

They were standing at a newsstand, perusing the papers and magazines. John bought a copy of The Lancet. Sherlock bought a packet of fags.

'I thought you'd given up,' John said, reproachfully.

'I had bad days,' the detective replied.

They were in a road behind Charing Cross when it finally went pear-shaped.

John suddenly found that not only was he ahead, he was walking alone. He looked back, and saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the pavement looking startled, his hands loosely by his sides, the hem of his jacket billowing in the hot afternoon breeze.

'Sherlock, what are you-' And then, of course, he knew. With the sixth sense of an infantryman, he knew everything with one look at the way Sherlock was standing, the expression in his eyes.

* * *

_Tomorrow, the boys find themselves in peril…_


	15. Chapter 15

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 15**

_A/N: 102 reviews at this point, so thank you so much. But I have to confess I am losing heart. This thing is so big. I set myself an impossible task when I started it, I think. What the hell was I thinking? Maybe its the migraine I had yesterday, but I feel like I'm wrestling a giant squid with a plastic fork.  
_

_To answer comments: I don't know if they sell The Lancet at newspaper stands because I've never bought one. I was thinking of one of those big,colourful ones with all the magazines pinned all over it. Imagination, people - I made it up! Oh, and the Victoria Sandwich. When I worked for a certain Womens organisation (English people will know the one), there was a lot of kerfuffle over the fact that Delia Smith, the famous cookery writer, had presented a Victoria Sandwich cake on TV as a Victoria sponge cake. Apparently there is a difference to those who know, and the ladies of Jam and Jerusalem were extremely upset about it. Just goes to show how divisive baking can be to the British. So never underestimate the power of cake!  
_

_Anyway a bit of peril might set me, and you, up for the day. This chapter is a bit of wish fulfillment especially for Memlet._

* * *

They were by the entrance to an alley between two blocks of offices. Sherlock began to shuffle awkwardly backwards, his face an eerie blank. John glanced up at the street sign. Paxton Alley. Good. He threw the Lancet into a bin, slipped his mobile into the front pocket of his jeans where it could be easily and quickly retrieved, and squeezed his arm down against his side, feeling the reassuring bulk of his Sig in the shoulder holster which his linen jacket concealed. He was glad he had come prepared. He followed Sherlock warily.

Once they were in the shadows, the man behind Sherlock seemed more at ease. Fewer bystanders, for one thing. Nobody to scream at the sight of the gun he had pressed into the back of Sherlock's neck. He shuffled his quarry backwards until they were deep into the alley, and John followed.

The assailant came to a halt, and peered over Sherlock's shoulder with sharp blue eyes. John could see a tuft of his red hair.

'Dr Watson, would you like to divest yourself of that little peashooter you have under your arm there?'

The voice that floated through the humid shadows had a distinctive Northern Irish lilt, those barked vowels, consonants that twisted like keys in awkward locks.

'I don't have a gun,' John lied.

'Please don't mess me about, Doctor, I'm not in the mood.'

John could tell from his tone, and the look in Sherlock's eyes, that there was no point in resisting. He very slowly slipped his hand under the edge of his jacket.

'Careful now,' the man snapped.

John drew out the gun, and bent down to rest it gently on the cobbles in front of him.

'Kick it this way.'

John did, flinching at the skitter of metal on stone. It was going to be a bastard to get those scratches off – he was very particular about looking after his firearms.

The man seemed to relax somewhat, straightening up so that John could see more of him over his love's shoulder.

'You okay, Sherlock?' John called out.

Sherlock nodded slowly.

'It's okay, Sherlock, you can talk if you like,' the Ulsterman said.

'I'd rather ask questions than state the obvious,' he replied.

'Oh, that's not very nice considering your boyfriend is worried about you, now is it?'

John and Sherlock's eyes met. It was as though they could hear one another's thoughts these days, John thought. No, that was fanciful. He hadn't known that – no, mustn't think of that now, not now.

'What do you want?' John called, deciding to push things along a bit.

'To finish off what Jim Moriarty started, I presume,' Sherlock answered for him.

John's guts turned over at the mention of that name.

'Oh, clever Sherlock. Jimmy was right about you,' the man said. 'You thought you'd got them all, but you didn't look in all the right holes. Men like me have to burrow pretty deep these days.'

'I shouldn't think your former paymasters are too happy about your activities,' Sherlock goaded, and John flinched.

'They're traitors to the Cause,' the man flared. 'No self-respecting Republican would agree to that travesty!' He jabbed Sherlock in the neck, forcing his head forward. 'Get out your phone, Sherlock. Let's you and me show them bastards what a real Republican war is all about, shall we?'

Sherlock delved in his pocket, drew out the phone he had been using – a pay-as-you-go, anonymous android that had the benefit of being disposable should he have to run. Useful now, too, John thought.

'Dial this number,' the man said, and produced a slip of paper over Sherlock's shoulder. The detective took it and squinted at it. Then dialled five digits into his phone.

'Press green, you idiot,' the man barked.

John saw the muscles in Sherlock's jaw flex. His fingertip hovered over the button.

'Now!' The man jerked the muzzle into his neck a second time, and Sherlock's finger touched the button.

John reckoned the explosion was about a thousand yards away. The alley rocked. Dust billowed through the street, a hot rush of air, the sensation of which John knew painfully well. Car alarms started shrieking in the midst of the ensuing silence. Then people started screaming. He couldn't help but crouch down for a second. Sherlock, though, couldn't escape the grip of his captor, who had him firmly by the scruff of the neck.

'And Goodbye Foyles! Happy memories, Doctor?' the terrorist grinned at him.

John looked at his gun, lying there on the cobbles and wondered how he might reach it.

'You've made your point,' Sherlock said, his hand dropping to his side, mobile still in his loose fingers. He looked suddenly drained.

'Oh, I haven't even started making my point, Mr Holmes. Have you worked out who I am yet?'

'You're the man who gave James Moriarty his big chance – Sebastian Moran.'

'That's _Colonel_ Moran to you! Maybe you are as clever as everyone says, Sherlock, maybe you are. Yes, I taught little Jimmy the ropes. He was like a kid brother to me. I watched him go from strength to strength, always knew he'd end up playing with the Big Boys.'

'And you taught him the violence and extortion and drugs rackets that financed his organisation.'

'Yes, I take all the credit, Sherlock, I do, I do. I gave Jimmy the chance to do his first knee-capping, and I can tell you, it was very impressive indeed! I always knew he had potential. I was so proud when he went international, started working with ETA, the Tamil Tigers, Al Quaeda, Hammas, all the greats.'

'But by then you had problems in your own back yard.'

'Jimmy made his own way after that. Which is why you didn't pick up on me when you were hunting his people down. And you did hunt them down, didn't you? I heard what happened in Marseilles, Sherlock. If I didn't know you were an enemy, I might almost think you were one of us.'

John saw Sherlock's eyes flicker. He knew that look.

'Do you know, he actually thanked me at the end,' he said.

Moran's eyes twitched, ears pricked. 'What?'

'He looked me in the eye and thanked me. He wanted to die, Moran. He was sick of himself. Sick of the madness. He revolted even himself. In the end, I gave him the chance for release, but _you_ destroyed him, years before, and he knew it.'

John would have rolled his eyes if he could have, but he was so transfixed with horror at the blatant provocation that he couldn't move. All he could think of was that he was going to lose Sherlock again, only hours after he had found him, and it was too monstrous to contemplate.

'You know, if I didn't know better, Sherlock, I would think you actually _wanted_ to die,' Moran said.

And then he stepped back, holding the gun at arm's length now, still pressed to Sherlock's jugular.

'Doctor, I'd like you to do something for me if you will, something that might actually save your precious detective's life.'

'What?' John's voice came out clear and calm, as if that was how he felt.

'I want you to take five paces forward. Just five. I'll count for you if you like – Jimmy always said you weren't very bright.'

'I can count to five, thanks,' John snarled.

'Then show me. Call it out.'

'One…Two…'

'John, stop!' Sherlock's cry, suddenly urgent.

'No, John, don't,' Moran mocked. 'Just three more paces, my lovely, you can do it!'

'Three…'

'For God's sake, John!'

'Sherlock, he'll kill you if I don't!'

'Yes, Sherlock, I will.'

'Four…'

'John, No!'

'Five. There. Happy now?'

'Ecstatic. Look down at your feet, Doctor Watson. What do you see?'

John looked down, and his heart froze. He was standing, with both feet, on what looked like a sheet of paper. He could see a tiny wire attached to one corner of it, a wire that ran along the crack between the cobbles and into some industrial bins at the side of the alley.

Three tours of duty in Kandahar and two in Basra at taught him everything he needed to know about IEDs.

'Oh, fuck.'

* * *

_Tomorrow, well, that would be telling..._


	16. Chapter 16

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 16**

_A/N: Once again, thank you for all your support. I think I've worked out why I've had this little wobble, and I'm really grateful for all the positive messages and kind thoughts you've sent. power0girl's idea about the jug of Pimms was defo in the right direction. If only I wasn't allergic to alcohol... Oh well, its all part of the Writing Life._

_OK, I've kept you waiting long enough..._

* * *

'Lift up your phone, Sherlock.' Moran's sly voice bit into his ear. He stayed silent, didn't move. All he could think about was that sheet of compressed explosive under the soles of John's shoes.

'The phone, Sherlock.'

The muzzle nudged his neck a little more insistently. It had been warmed by his skin.

'How much is there?' he croaked.

'In the bomb? Oh, enough to blow your little lad's femurs through his body cavity and out the top of his shoulders. I've seen that happen, you know. It's quite pretty, if you like red. 'Course, it takes a hell of a long time to clean up afterwards, but-'

'Shut up!' The shout came out of Sherlock's mouth without any intervention from his brain.

'Don't let him get to you,' John called. He could see the doctor was shaking. The colour had drained from his lips.

'Too late, Doc, he already has,' Moran grinned. 'The phone, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's hand slowly rose as if it had a will of its own. He became aware of another slip of paper being held out over his shoulder. He took it and stared at it, unseeing.

'Dial it in, smartarse.'

The keys beeped as he worked. Five more digits. He had no idea what they would detonate. He looked up and found John's eyes. There was defiance there, and love. John still had faith in him, even after everything that had happened, every misery Sherlock had heaped upon him. He suddenly felt small. Very small.

'Got it?' Moran was barking at him.

Sherlock gazed at John.

'Do you have it?' Moran jabbed with the gun, knocking Sherlock slightly off balance.

He pulled himself upright and nodded.

'Well, press the fecking Send button then!'

Sherlock's eyes locked back onto John's. He could see a faint haze of sweat on his lover's upper lip. His brows had peaked up in the middle, the familiar groove between them deepening. Sherlock was holding the phone up. He realised that his hand was shaking.

'Fuck this!' Moran shouted and snatched the android out of his hand. He pressed the button.

An intricate network of red beams of light flickered on around them, like a cat's cradle. He heard John gasp.

'Lasers,' Sherlock couldn't help but say. 'Interesting.'

Moran ground the muzzle of the gun into his vertebrae. 'Well, now, isn't that pretty? Just like Christmas. Double or quits is what they call it where I come from. He lifts his foot off the pad? The bomb detonates. The beams are broken? The bomb detonates. Either way, the effect is the same. Messy.'

Sherlock saw John sway slightly, and a chill gripped him. 'John, don't move! The beams are about two centimetres from your back!'

He saw John try to steady himself, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he fought for control.

'I can still back out,' Sherlock tested.

Then he heard more buttons being pressed behind him, and the beep of the Send button again.

'Not now, loverboy. You're locked in nice and tight, the two of you. Some diligent copper walks in the end of the street and you're both toast. I should love to stay and watch, but there's a war on, you know how it is.'

Then the sound of receding footsteps.

John met his eye. 'He's gone.'

'John, do you still have your phone?'

'In my pocket, I don't think I can-'

'Just keep your elbow and shoulder in line, and you won't break the beam.'

John was sweating heavily now, struggling to keep his arm even as he bent it to reach into his pocket.

'Fuck, you'll have to guide me.'

'Just keep straight, go on, its not far-'

He managed to ease the mobile out and straighten his arm. He would have to dial it at waist height, but it was possible.

'Dial Lestrade, tell him-'

'I know.'

'Put it on loudspeaker.'

Suddenly the buzz of the ringtone echoed off the alley walls.

Click.

'_Lestrade.'_

'Greg, It's John, I-'

'_John, this really isn't a good time, There-'_

'Greg, there's a second bomb!'

'_What?'_

'Paxton Alley, at the back of Charing Cross. Listen carefully. There's a pressure pad and a series of laser triggers. You need to seal the alley off at both ends so no one comes in here, or we'll blow, the whole place is rigged.'

'_You're in there?'_

'Yes.' John took a deep breath. 'Yes, both of us. There's two of us.'

There was a painful silence at the other end.

'_Who's with you, John?'_

'You don't need me to tell you that.'

'_Oh, Christ!'_

More agonised silence.

'_John, are you okay?'_

'Fine, thanks, apart from the fact that I'm standing on a fucking bomb.'

'_I'm getting the bomb squad right on it, just hang in there.'_

'Seal this alley off, Greg. If anyone walks in here-'

'_I'm on it. Look, does Mycroft know?'_

John glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head.

'No. Not yet. I think you should let us tell him.'

'_Yes. Right. Okay. Look I'll be down there as fast as I can. I've put orders in, they'll be sealing you off any minute.'_

'Thanks.'

'_And John?'_

'Yeah?'

'_You'll be fine.'_

'Yeah. Thanks, mate.'

'_I'll give the bomb squad this number so they can talk you through it.'_

'Yeah.'

'_Ten minutes, right?'_

'Right.'

John's fingers flexed as he shut off the connection.

They stood there, staring at one another. After a few moments, John cleared his throat awkwardly.

'I don't want to die just yet,' he said, rather hoarse.

'No,' Sherlock agreed. All he wanted to do was to walk over there and take the beautiful little man into his arms, and he couldn't. It was the cruellest punishment Moran could have devised. But then, that was undoubtedly the bastard's point.

'There are so many things we haven't done yet,' John went on.

'Yes.' Sherlock could feel tears pricking his eyes.

'That thing you said before?'

'Yes?'

'The thing about getting married?'

'Yes?'

'I think we should do it as soon as possible.'

'How are you fixed for tomorrow?' Sherlock said, forcing the corners of his mouth up into a smile, his voice quavering slightly. John gave him a slightly tearful grin. It was agony. He had to do something to make it alright, but seeing as there was no way he could cuddle the man he loved, there was only one thing he could do. Make him laugh.

'You should wear flowers in your hair,' he said.

John's mouth twitched.

'Pink roses I think,' Sherlock continued. 'Or yellow.'

'I'm not wearing roses,' John said. 'Or a dress.'

'Pity.'

'You're more the dress type than me.'

'Too tall.'

'Silk-satin and a guipure lace overlay with a five foot train, that's what Sarah wore.'

'And I'm sure she looked lovely in it.'

'So would you. In fact, I reckon people would pay good money to see you in that dress. I certainly would. I wonder if she would lend it to us.'

'Something borrowed,' Sherlock said, and they were both smiling. It was ridiculous. Tears were running down Sherlock's cheeks and here they were, making stupid joke plans for their wedding while they were trussed up in a booby-trap bomb.

'I love you,' John said, and his bottom lip trembled.

Sherlock realised he was losing him again. 'Or we could wait till Christmas,' he blundered on. 'We could have a winter wedding and wear matching white velvet suits. Or marabou feathers.'

John set his jaw resolutely. 'Too gay.'

'Or on a beach in Bermuda, in matching sarongs.'

'Too hot.'

'You should wear pearl grey,' Sherlock said, with a flash of inspiration. 'A silk-wool mix. Something with a sheen. Perhaps a Prince of Wales check. Double-breasted, I think.'

John shook his head wryly. 'Double breasted always makes me look short and fat. I don't want to look like a nightclub bouncer at my own wedding.'

'Not fat. Anyway, I like it when you look chunky.'

'I think we could class 'chunky' as almost as bad as the other 'c' word. In fact, lets just decide to steer clear of any adjectives beginning with the letter 'c' in reference to me, shall we?'

'Beefy, then. Or butch.'

John rolled his eyes. That was better. Anything that got him to despair of Sherlock was definitely progress.

'Besides, you've definitely lost weight since I've been away, despite the triple chocolate ice cream binges. I need to feed you up.'

'I don't want a new suit, I want you.'

'You can have both,' Sherlock grinned, against every fibre in his body. 'I'll buy you the suit. We'll go to Mycroft's tailor.'

'And what will you wear?'

'Anything, I don't care.'

'The purple shirt.'

'What?'

'That purple shirt, the silk one. I love that shirt.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'Okay, the purple shirt. Anything else?'

'No, I think you should get Mycroft to walk you up the aisle stark naked except for the purple shirt.'

'Can you imagine his face?' Sherlock giggled, almost hysterical now.

Then he caught sight of a bobby at the end of the alley, coming round the corner.

'Don'tcomeanyclosertheplaceisboob ytrapped!' he screamed, almost lifting off his feet, and the poor man froze, bleaching to the nape, and shuffled backwards until he was on the pavement of the outer road. Sherlock glanced at John, saw that he was shaking again.

'Not long now, love, not long.'

'I don't want to die today.'

'We're not going to die today, John. Trust me. I know it.'

Their eyes locked together again.

* * *

_Okay, so how the hell am I going to get our boys out of this one? You'll have to come back tomorrow to find out..._


	17. Chapter 17

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 17**

_A/N: I wish I could say I was sorry for keeping you all on tenterhooks all weekend. But I'm not (maniacal cackle!). _

_I've been having a debate with myself over Mirith's comment about guipure lace. Would a man like John know what that is? On the other hand, he is supposed to be such a ladies man, so maybe he's bought enough high-end lingerie to know exactly what it is. I'm still not sure, but as usual it raises interesting questions about my characterisation of John. Am I getting it right? This is why comments are so useful._

_Okay, I've kept you waiting long enough…_

* * *

A ceiling. No, a roof. Of a vehicle. John blinked. Everything was blurred. Then it coalesced into a familiar shape. Sherlock was looking down at him.

It is hard to fling your whole body upwards from a prone position, but John managed it. Before he even knew consciously what he was doing, he was hanging by his arms around Sherlock's neck, and someone, somebody else, importantly, was speaking in a rather urgent tone.

Sherlock pulled gently back and looked into his eyes. 'John, you have to lie back.'

'What? No! I'm fine!'

'They want to check your heart, John.'

'There's nothing wrong with my heart.'

'That's what they want to make sure of. Let them? For my sake?'

John lay back with bad grace and looked around him. He was in the back of an ambulance, and a paramedic in a green overall was standing behind Sherlock looking slightly stressed.

'Just try to stay still, Doctor Watson, this won't take long,' he coaxed.

John was irritated. He knew exactly what was going on – it wasn't as if he hadn't had it done before, and certainly had done it plenty of times himself. An ECG. His shirt was open and there were sensors taped to his skin. But Sherlock wanted this, so he tried to relax.

'What happened?'

Sherlock squeezed his hand. 'You passed out.'

'It's not like you to state the obvious.'

'They'd just disconnected the pressure pad. You'd been standing there for five hours. It's hardly surprising, considering.'

He remembered now. Five hours of standing on a bomb. Five hours while the men in body armour worked around him. Five hours under extreme stress. Five hours of waiting to know if he would ever walk about of there alive.

Once they worked out the lasers, they got Sherlock out almost immediately. He was only locked in with one beam, after all. That was almost certainly deliberate on Moran's part. He must have wanted to make his enemy sweat. John was just collateral damage to him. So Sherlock had been forced to watch and wait while the sappers worked their way down the alley from either end, neutralising one laser at a time, until they could safely move around John to disconnect the pressure pad on which he was standing.

'I think maybe we need to go cold turkey for a while on the whole adrenaline junkie thing, love,' John said, examining the ambulance's ceiling. Sherlock squeezed his hand.

The paramedic plucked at the curl of paper coming out of the ECG machine. 'Looks fine to me, but you'll need to be in overnight for observation.'

'Bugger that,' John said, sitting up and tearing off the sensors in order to button up his shirt.

There was a sudden commotion outside, and the doors at the back were wrenched open.

''Ere, you can't just come barging in here!' shouted the paramedic.

Gregory Lestrade was not listening. He flashed his warrant card and climbed into the van, pulling the door shut behind him. Then he stood there, slightly bent over because of the height of the roof, and stared at Sherlock.

The formerly dead detective was sitting on the little flip-down stool beside the head of the stretcher. He had a shock blanket wrapped tightly around him, which he was holding down with one stringy hand, whilst with the other he was hanging onto John. He looked frightened and drained. Whatever spleen Greg had meant to vent on him died on his lips.

'Good to see you, you bastard,' he said instead.

John swung his legs off the stretcher and put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. He looked up into John's eyes, a bit bemused.

'I think maybe he's the one who needs treatment for shock,' John said to the paramedic.

'Look, you two should get out of here. Rumours have got around and Stanhope's bound to be down here like a shot when he hears,' Greg said. 'Find somewhere to lay low for a couple of days, let Myc and I sort this mess out.'

'I don't want Mycroft sorting anything,' Sherlock told him with an icy tone.

'Sherlock, I'm not sure you realise how much legal trouble you're in,' Greg warned him.

'Greg's right, Sherlock. Stanhope's out for your skin.'

Lestrade nodded, apparently glad that John was backing him up. 'He had John in custody for the first two days after you fell. He was convinced he was in on your scam.'

'What scam?'

'Exactly, but everyone has been so convinced by the newspaper exposé.'

Sherlock turned his bleached eyes on John. 'He actually arrested you?'

John shrugged it off. 'I think he realised quite quickly that he had nothing, from the state I was in, but it wasn't a nice experience.'

'It probably didn't help that you'd broken his nose,' Greg added.

John grinned. 'I think that was worth it.'

'Still, he's been in charge of the inquiry into your activities, and he's like a dog with a bone, won't let go. He's out to get you, so we need to get the big guns to counter him.'

'You need to tell Mycroft, love,' John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

'I already have.'

'What?'

'Sent him a text while they were getting you out.'

'You told your brother you were alive by text?' Greg was horrified. 'Do you have any idea what state he's been in since you fell? Any idea at all?'

'I imagine he was rather annoyed,' Sherlock told him.

'John, can I hit him, please? I really need to hit him right now.'

John ignored him. 'Love, did you really tell Mycroft with a text?'

'Yes. I sent him a sequence. Something from a code we used to use as kids, something only I'd know. Was I wrong?'

'Something only you and he share?'

'Yes. No one else could know that. He couldn't have told Moriarty. He would never have thought of it.'

John nodded and considered. He was aware of Greg pressing his hand over his eyes in despair.

'Look, Greg, I know it probably sounds daft but that may be the best way,' John suggested. 'I mean, just turning up would probably have given him an aneurism, if he's been that bad.'

'He _has_ been bad, John.'

'Well, I'm very sorry, but he deserves it,' Sherlock muttered.

Greg exploded. 'Do you have the faintest idea what you've done? Can you possibly imagine what it would take to break a man like Mycroft? No, you can't, and I'll tell you why, Sherlock bloody Holmes – because you have no imagination whatsoever!'

'Break him?' Sherlock's voice sounded uncertain in his throat.

'That's what I said, smartarse. Break. As in, broken. As in huddled on the floor in the middle of the night, sobbing. Night after night. And yes, he made a mistake. He knows that. A mistake that resulted in his brother's suicide. He has your death on his conscience. Can you understand even a tiny bit of what that means? The only person he has ever cared about? It's worse than killing you himself, and I'm pretty sure he's thought about that regularly over the years – I know I have!'

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock said quietly.

Greg leaned down and shouted in his ear. 'Don't tell me. Tell _him_, you prat!'

He turned to John. 'Just get him out of here before Stanhope tracks you down. I'll see what I can do to sort out this mess.'

John grabbed Sherlock's upper arm and dragged him out of the ambulance and into the shadows.

'I had no idea,' Sherlock muttered.

'Yeah, well, neither did I. Haven't been speaking to him, have I?'

'Where are we going?'

'No idea,' John said, dragging his love along. He didn't feel like dealing with any of this right now. He wanted to go home to bed and sleep for a thousand years. But you never got to do that around Sherlock, so he figured that eventually everything would sort itself out and maybe he would get a chance for a lie-in after all. Better to keep moving until that happened.

* * *

_Tomorrow: meanwhile, at the Diogenes Club…_


	18. Chapter 18

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 18**

_A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! Sorry today's installment is late - life got in the way! I realise this chapter is short, but I feel like Mycroft's grief and relief deserves a special space all its own._

* * *

Mycroft was sitting quietly in the Reading Room of the Diogenes Club when his phone beeped. He had been mulling over the dissident Republican problem and trying not to think about the pain in his side, or the bomb emergency going on in the Charing Cross Road area. He had been informed that two hostages had been taken and were currently being extricated from a booby trap. He brooded over this.

His sources had been collated overnight, following the attempt on his life. The so called 'Real' IRA, and the 'Continuity' IRA groups had been effectively neutralised on the mainland in recent months, though he still had a little way to go in eradicating them from the province. There were intelligence pointers to another break-away group, with links to militant Republicanism in Eire. It was going to require delicate diplomacy to smooth over ruffled feathers in the Dail. He was supposed to be in New York, negotiating trade and intelligence arrangements with the Somalis, not fiddling about with defunked terrorist threats at home. But then, if he had been in New York, he would not have received the text.

Eight digits. A numerical code. It came from an unlisted, unidentified number. As soon as he saw it, his heart lifted. He made a small, involuntary noise in the back of his throat, which provoked some grumbling and ruffling of newspapers from the other members. Mycroft got up carefully, not just because of his cracked ribs, but also because he was feeling significantly dizzy. Because things like this didn't happen to him.

Nobody in the world was allowed to resurrect themselves without Mycroft's express permission. Except, it seemed, his beloved brother.

He tottered to the lavishly appointed Gents. There was no one about, which was a relief. He lent on the basin and looked at himself in the mirror. The tears in his eyes surprised him. He let his head fall and wept for a while, allowing himself to let go of the pressure crowding under his sternum.

Then, as he was splashing his face, a memory came back to him. Sherlock's first violin recital - he had been seven, Mycroft thirteen. Adelaide was ill, but that night she was determined to be present for her little brother's big night. Mycroft had been home from Eton for an exeat weekend. For once, they were all together.

Sherlock had played Mozart. His fingers skimmed over the strings like feathers. He trilled like a skylark. Standing in the middle of the stage, his little pigeon chest puffed out with pride, he had shown the world what he was made of. Mummy had not been impressed – she said he should have stood up straighter. Afterwards, Mycroft had picked Sherlock up and whirled him around, while they both laughed with joy. It was the happiest moment he ever remembered them sharing.

Sherlock had been capable of creating miracles even at eight years old. Now, at thirty-five, he had created his best yet.

Mycroft looked at himself in the mirror and laughed. This time, he wasn't going to be able to pick his little brother up and whirl him round, but he was damn well going to try.

* * *

_Tomorrow: John discovers a secret..._


	19. Chapter 19

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 19**

_A/N: Thank you once again for all your reviews. I'm so glad that I am converting some of you to Mycroft. I think he is an utterly gorgeous character, a puddle of seething and contradictory motivations._

_Anyway, back to our boys:_

* * *

John became aware of movement. He prized his eyes open and blinked at the horrible digital alarm clock by the bed. It's nauseatingly green dial read '5.02am'. He groaned and turned over.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed in a track suit.

Hold on a minute.

He looked again. Yes, it was definitely a tracksuit.

'What are you doing,' he mumbled, pushing up onto one elbow and rubbing his eyes.

'We've got to go,' Sherlock said quietly.

'You're in sports gear. You never wear sports gear.'

'Yes, I do.'

'Yeah, when?'

'When I'm doing sports.'

'You don't _do_ sports.'

'On the contrary. Anyway, you have to get up now if you're coming.' He leaned over and kissed John's forehead softly.

'Can't not come now you've kissed me, can I?' John hauled himself off the knobbly mattress. They had walked for several miles until they found a branch of a national hotel chain, the kind that did very cheap rooms on a basics premise. The room had proved to be _very_ basic. They didn't care. They were so exhausted, they had just flopped into the bed and slept like stones. Now John was pulling yesterday's clothes on and wondering where Sherlock had got hold of his new outfit.

As if he read John's mind, Sherlock pulled a sports bag from under the bed and passed him a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush still in its packet, and a deodorant. He flashed a weak smile to go with it.

'What's wrong, love, what's going on?' John wasn't stupid. He could see when Sherlock was worried.

'We're going to see Mycroft,' the detective replied, dropping his eyes to the bag and fiddling with the zip. 'Don't know what kind of reception I'll get.'

John's eyes followed Sherlock's and glimpsed something he never expected, peeping out of the bag. Sherlock tried to stuff it back, but John had hooked it out before he could manage it.

'My cardigan! My old brown cardi. What're you doing with it? I thought I'd lost it for good!'

'I-er,' Sherlock mumbled.

That was when John twigged. John had been wearing that cardigan the night of the pool incident. It had felted quite badly because of the chlorine. It wasn't fit to wear anywhere except around the flat after that, but he was too attached to it to throw it away, so he used it as his 'slobbing-about' jumper. It had disappeared after Sherlock fell.

'I wanted something, just a bit of something,' Sherlock told him, his voice quiet and heavy with emotion.

'And you took it with you.'

'Yes.'

'You really didn't think you were coming back, did you?'

'No.'

The gravity of this revelation hit John in the diaphragm so hard he had to sit back down on the bed.

Sherlock had taken a piece of clothing John had been wearing the night they first started cuddling. An article that would have smelt strongly of John's body and aftershave. Something with strong associations for him. And had then carried it all around Europe with him. For eight months. In that bag. That bag which had arrived during the night, obviously delivered by whoever had helped Sherlock effect his escape from Barts on that last, terrible day.

John put his head in his hands. It was too much. Too much pain. Too much love.

Sherlock sat down beside him. 'It smelled of you. I took it because I wanted something to remember you by. Then I couldn't stop touching it. I cuddled it at night. I cried into it. It was supposed to help but it only made me miss you more, because it only seemed to remind me that you weren't with me. That I couldn't hold you. I'm sorry, John. You've no idea how sorry I am.'

'Who helped you?'

'I can't tell you that.'

'Why not?'

'I just can't. Please don't make me. I can tell you anything but that.'

'How am I ever going to trust you again if you don't tell me everything?'

'Look at the sweater, John. The sweater is how much I need you. I'll never leave you again because of what that sweater represents. You are everything to me, everything. I'll tell you everything else. I just can't tell you _that_. Please believe me.'

John raised his head and looked into his lover's miserable eyes. Once again, he was stunned at how wretched Sherlock was. He picked up the washing things.

'I'll get ready,' he sighed, and got up.

* * *

_Tomorrow's episode by special request for Mirith Griffin. Includes mist and bloody knuckles. Does what it says on the tin. You have been warned..._


	20. Chapter 20

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 20**

_A/N: as I mentioned yesterday, this chapter was written specially with **Mirith Griffin** in mind. I promised you ages ago, my dear, and I'm sorry its taken me so long. Hope it lives up to expectations._

_IMPORTANT NOTICE PLEASE READ: to all Cuddles addicts. Today's episode is going to be the last one until **Monday 24th September** because I am going on Holiday! I had planned to take my laptop with me, but further investigation of our destination (remote Scottish island) suggests WiFi would be a rare beast indeed, and besides, the thought of lugging my precious lappy through the British airport system fills me with exhaustion. So I am sorry for the break in transmission, but I hope it will leave you excited for more._

_PS am intrigued that there were only two reviews yesterday. I'm not knocking it, I just wonder why. Did Sherlock's John-oriented security blanket touch some buttons, or was it too preposterous to bother with? Or was everybody out at 9/11 memorial services? (If you were, you have my deepest sympathies.) Anyway, I'd be interested to know if there was any reason behind this statistical anomaly._

_So, without more ado, off to Mirith's misty park scene..._

* * *

There was a thick mist in the park redolent of Autumn, though it was only early July. It shrouded the trees and shrubs in moist whiteness. Everything dripped.

A man was standing by a bench as they approached, appearing out of the fog like a phantom. He was wearing a pale grey track suit. He was alone. When he turned, John saw that his face was badly bruised. It was still recognisable.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock said, coming to a standstill about six feet away.

The elder brother drew himself up. 'Sherlock.'

They stared at one another.

'Are you ready?' Mycroft asked.

'Of course.'

'Hang on, ready for what?' As always, John had to be clued in.

'To solve our differences,' Mycroft said, pulling off his hoodie (Mycroft in a hoodie, John thought, now that's a contradiction in terms.) Sherlock was divesting himself of his outer layers too. They both ended up in t-shirts and tracksuit bottoms, squaring up to one another about four feet apart.

'Usual rules?'

Mycroft nodded.

'John can be referee, then,' Sherlock suggested.

'Just wait a second, referee of what?'

'Bare knuckle fighting, my dear Captain,' Mycroft said. 'This is how the Holmes family has settled its differences for centuries.'

'Oh, great! That's _very_ civilised, isn't it? You haven't seen each other in eight months, one of you thought the other was dead, and the first thing you do is beat the stuffing out of each other! Brilliant! Dazzling communication skills! Dear God!' He turned to Sherlock. 'Are you completely out of your mind? Look at the state of him! His nose is already broken, for God's sake!'

'He's broken it three times before,' Mycroft pointed out. 'A fourth will probably put it back where it ought to be.'

'What _did_ happen to your face?' Sherlock asked, a flicker of curiosity in his features.

'I had a rather intimate chat with some associates of Colonel Moran,' Mycroft said, pulling a roll of tape out of a holdall at his feet. 'As I believe you two did yesterday. Would you like some tape?'

'This is supposed to be bare knuckles, My.'

'Yes, but you'll appreciate that mine are already split and it doesn't do to appear before the Defence Select Committee incapable to flexing one's hands sufficiently to write one's own name.'

'For God's sake, this is insane!' John shouted at them.

'You'll be here to patch us up,' Sherlock shrugged.

'Maybe I should just leave then!'

'We'll fight whether you're here or not,' Mycroft pointed out, finishing his ministrations.

'Well, what are the rules then,' John groaned. 'If you want me to referee?'

'Simple,' said Sherlock, and kneed Mycroft sharply in the groin. 'There aren't any.'

He followed his devastating genital assault with a smart blow to the diaphragm and then a neat upper cut that catapulted his brother sky high and landed him on his back in the dew-gleaming grass. John was not sure if it was the agony of crushed gonads or the fact that he was trying to get his breath back that made Mycroft writhe about. But he managed to stagger to his feet, though he stumbled a bit.

'I won't stand by and watch this, Sherlock, this is a massacre!'

'Hardly,' Mycroft rasped and flung himself back into the running. He delivered several punishing body blows to Sherlock, and John was sure he heard the cracking of ribs as his lover reeled away.

After that, it was roughly equal, and it was a mauling. They were both good fighters. Mycroft was the bigger man, with a heavier punch and a longer reach, but Sherlock was faster, more agile. Punch after punch was exchanged, punishing them both. John could only stand there and watch in horror. At one point he thought they'd give up – they were both only standing because they were propping each other up, arms around one another's necks and shoulders. But then they set to again. John had seen some fights in his time, but none so vicious as this, nor so dirty. Mycroft gouged. Sherlock slapped and tore. Mycroft bit. Sherlock kicked and stamped.

Eventually he couldn't stand it any longer. When they staggered apart to prepare for a fresh sally, John forced himself between them, and shouted as loud as he could.

'Right, that's it, enough!'

Sherlock squinted at him. He had a nasty cut above his eye that was going to need stitching, and his beautiful lip was split. John was not sure if the blood on his face was his own, or mostly Mycroft's, which was perfectly possible, given that the elder brother's t-shirt was wet with the gore that was gushing from his nostrils.

'I think he's right, Lops,' Mycroft panted. 'Don't think I can take much more.'

John had never heard Sherlock referred to in this way. He glanced at his love, who rolled his eyes. 'Lops' was obviously a story that would have to wait.

Mycroft drew himself up and cleared his throat. 'I'm sorry, Lops,' he announced. 'I made a mistake that almost cost you your life, and the lives of those you love. It was born of my own arrogance, and my failure to assess how much a threat James Moriarty was. I have caused you great anguish and inconvenience, and I am truly contrite. And now if you will forgive me, I think I need to sit down.'

He walked rather slowly and unsteadily towards the bench and seated himself carefully.

John turned to Sherlock, agog. 'Was that enough for you?'

'It'll do,' he shrugged, and went to join his brother.

* * *

_See you again on Monday 24th September when John mops up the wreckage..._


	21. Chapter 21

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 21**

_A/N: Dear all, thank you for your kind wishes, and yes, the holiday was great. The only thing I can say about the weather is that we had __**lots of it**__! But then that's Scotland for you. If you are interested you can find pictures of the beach where I set the last chapter of 'A Case of Resurrection' on my tumblr account at evenlode dot tumblr dot com (as soon as I get them off the camera, that is!)._

_Well, back to work, then, and John is patching our brothers up after their differences have been settled…_

* * *

John had never been to Mycroft's flat. Once they left the private lift, he realised that the word 'flat' was something of a misnomer. It was a penthouse palace. He gawped.

'Shut your mouth, John, its unsightly,' Sherlock hissed at him. He was weaving a little.

'I need to examine you both and clean you up,' John said. He looked at the luxurious white shag pile. 'Preferably somewhere where it doesn't matter if you bleed.'

'Bathroom then,' Mycroft said, and led the way.

It was vast, with a huge white tub big enough for about four people, and an equally spacious shower enclosure. John brought in a chair and bid Mycroft sit. His medical bag had been brought from Baker Street by some minion, which meant he had the materials to mop up the mess and examine the elder Holmes's battered nose.

'This is going to need surgery, you do realise that?' he told Mycroft, when he had wiped the worst of the blood away.

'I suspected so.'

'You could have a whole new design,' Sherlock said, leaning on the doorframe. 'Something regal. Hawkish, perhaps.'

'Shut up, Sherlock.' John got up close to look, touching Mycroft's cheekbone and eye socket carefully. He flinched. 'I think you may need plates in here. It looks like a fracture to the orbital bone.'

'Will I be able to fly at the end of the week?'

'Going somewhere?'

'Taking Greg to Antigua. He says I need a holiday.'

'Very nice. But you'll probably have to put that off. I know a good man at Barts if you want me to arrange an appointment.'

'Thank you, but I already have a consultant.'

'Oh. Oh, good. Right then.' John packed Mycroft's nostrils to support the broken structure. 'Take off the t-shirt, I need to see those ribs.'

Mycroft struggled. It was clear from the off that he had some serious damage under there. John helped him with the blood-soaked garment. What he found underneath shocked even him.

Mycroft was black and blue. And quite a few shades of purple.

'What the fuck happened?'

'A small fight on some stairs.'

'Stairs?'

'Concrete ones.'

'Jesus! Did you get this looked at?'

Mycroft shrugged and seriously regretted it. John wasn't surprised at his grimace. 'You need an x-ray, but I'd say you've broken at least four ribs, possibly more. Trouble expanding your lungs? Pain?'

'A little.'

'Don't be noble, Mycroft, I'm a doctor.'

'Alright then, yes.'

John took out his stethoscope and listened to Mycroft's broad chest. It didn't sound good.

'You definitely aren't going to Antigua on Friday,' he said, and made a few more gentle explorations to check for ruptured internal organs, but everything seemed sound. 'Well, you're lucky. There's extensive bruising along with the broken ribs. I would seriously counsel against flying, given the thrombosis risk, but you've got away with it - this time. You need to take _at least_ a week off to rest those ribs, though, and _get an x-ray_. Right?'

Mycroft huffed, but nodded. 'Greg won't be pleased.'

'I should think he'd be a damn sight more worried about having you well than about not going to Antigua just yet.'

Mycroft looked at his watch, ignoring John. 'Breakfast should be arriving shortly,' he said, and got up rather stiffly.

'Right. Sherlock?' John motioned to his love to sit down.

'I'll leave you to patch him up,' Mycroft said, and slid out. 'Help yourself to a shower if you want one.'

Sherlock sat down for his turn in the doctor's chair.

'Lops, eh?' John began to clean down his lover's face.

Sherlock sighed. 'I suppose I am being too hopeful to expect you to forget you heard that?'

'Yep.'

'It's his pet name for me. I had speech difficulties as a small child. I couldn't say my own name properly. Lops was the best I could manage for nearly a year. It stuck.'

John salted that little morsel of medical history away quietly. He knew speech problems were common amongst children on the autistic spectrum, and he had long ago concluded that Sherlock had some form of the condition.

'I promise I won't call you Lops,' he smiled, dabbing at the cut above Sherlock's eye and making him hiss. 'I'm going to need to stitch this.'

He prepared his materials and equipment. Luckily, he carried around pretty much everything he needed in disposable or pre-packed form. Sherlock wasn't bothered – he'd had quite a few stitches in his time, and he sat there patiently, trusting his little doctor to make the necessary mends efficiently.

'You understand that was necessary,' he said after a while.

'No, Sherlock, I don't. I don't see that it's necessary to beat your brother to a virtually unrecognisable pulp just because you have your differences.' John tied off the first stitch neatly. 'Violence is not the answer.'

'Do you have the first idea how ridiculous that sounds coming out of the mouth of a former army officer?'

'War only happens when diplomatic avenues have been exhausted.'

'If you think that, you are more naïve than I ever gave you credit for.'

'Christ, I thought me and Harry were dysfunctional, but at least we talk to one another, even if it is at the tops of our voices!'

'John, you know I love you, but my relationship with Mycroft is not one that can be explained in normal terms.'

John tied off the last stitch and cut the thread. Then he laid down his tools and lent back against the sink, and crossed his arms.

'You know what Mycroft's been doing in his spare time these last months, Sherlock? Hmm? And yes, he does have spare time. At least he made some for this. Greg told me. He tracked down every one of the 28 men who abused you at school. Every last one. He checked each one of them out. He only had a few names to start with, but he made all the links in the end. And then he paid each one a visit. Greg told me they would hear a noise in the night, and come downstairs and find Mycroft and two of his goons sitting in their lounge in the dark. He told them he knew all about what they'd done. The ones who were not living saintly lives he turned over to whatever authorities were involved, the police, the tax men, the social services. The ones that were, he put the fear of God into them. Explained how he would be watching them in future. For the rest of their lives. One tiny wrong move and that would be it. He would ruin them. He didn't just finish Lasky and Nicholls, he did them all. Every last one, Sherlock. Even after you were dead. Why don't you just think about that while you have your shower.'

* * *

_Tomorrow, breakfast and making plans to clear up Sherlock's mess…_


	22. Chapter 22

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 22**

_A/N: I may finally be at home, but I think I left my brain on Islay, so if there are any gaffs in this, I apologise profusely! Also, I overslept this morning, which is why this is late._

_OK, apologies over. Power0girl made a good point yesterday about the idea of Mycroft taking Greg on a cruise. Frankly that hadn't occurred to me, and it's a great idea, tho I'm not sure the other passengers would appreciate the huge volume of sex noises coming from the state rooms! So, darl, maybe that's another story…._

_Here we go with today's chapter, an important emotional episode. And containing mention of butter. Which will become important later on. So now you have something to look forward to…_

* * *

John was shaking with rage when he came out of the bathroom. He stalked along the corridor and out into the open living space. The sun had started to burn through the mist, and the wall of bifold doors that let out onto the roof terrace filled the room with a glaze of brightness. The rich smell of freshly ground coffee was drifting on the air. Mycroft was standing in the kitchen area, talking to a tall blonde man.

'Ah, John, come and meet Tim Baxter, my colleague.'

John sidled over, intrigued. Other than the inaccurately named Anthea, he had never met any other of Mycroft's Intelligence officers. Baxter was well over six feet tall, a bronzed Adonis with a shock of golden hair and a cheerful, open face. But he had sharp blue eyes and John immediately sensed that this was a man who used his appearance to hide a fiendishly sharp brain. Baxter shook his hand heartily and made 'good to meet you, tops,' noises in the traditional Tory Boy manner. John smiled a wry smile, which he was sure Mycroft caught. The poor man's face was swelling up horribly but he seemed determined to soldier on. John was not a fan of soldiering on, medically speaking. But he knew it would be shouting at the moon to try and persuade Mycroft, so he kept his council.

'Thought we'd have a breakfast meeting, John, if you are amenable,' Mycroft went on.

'What about?' He perched on one of the tall stools at the breakfast bar and examined his reflection in the back marble worktop.

'You and Sherlock, the whole Moriarty debacle, how we are going to deal with the inquiry, and of course, Moran.'

'Moran. Yes.' John still didn't feel much like talking about that. He'd been far more rattled by the bomb than he'd let on. It brought back too many dreadful memories to be easily assimilated.

Mycroft assembled coffee cups and plates on the breakfast bar, then produced hot croissants from the oven, and took the coffee off the boil. Freshly squeezed orange juice was poured, and a pat of chilled butter came straight out of the fridge. It all smelt fantastic. Good enough to draw even the culinarily immune Sherlock from the shower.

'What's this?' he stalked across the living room.

'Breakfast. Sherlock, this is-'

'Could you give us a moment in private,' Sherlock cut in as he turned to Baxter. The handsome blonde blinked and retreated onto the roof terrace, closing the doors discreetly behind him.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood before his brother with an odd expression.

'Yes?' Mycroft craned his head forward in that patronising way of his, narrowing his eyes in enquiry.

'I'm sorry, Moff,' Sherlock said.

John felt as if he'd been caught in the blast radius of the words.

'I'm sorry that I've caused you so much trouble. I've always been difficult and I haven't appreciated the time and effort you put into trying to help me. I saw it as interference. I was wrong. I appreciate what you did with Lasky and Nicholls. That means a lot to me. Probably more than you can understand. And the others. John told me. Thank you.'

Mycroft blinked, the words sinking in. And then, moving at a snail's pace, he reached out and embraced his brother. For a moment, Sherlock seemed unable to respond. Or perhaps was unsure how. But then, he lifted his hands and rested them on Mycroft's back, pressed his face into his shoulder and closed his eyes with a sigh.

After several poignant moments, Mycroft pulled back. John could see that, although his eyes were swelling up quite badly, tears were brimming in them.

'One thing, Lops,' he said, sounding rather croaky. 'I hope you don't mind, but I think I'm getting a bit old for the "family tradition" these days.' He rubbed his side gingerly, for emphasis. 'Can't seem to stand the pace anymore. Perhaps we could have a chess tournament instead.'

Sherlock nodded, seriously. 'How about Connect4 – I always beat you at that.'

John had to put his hand over his mouth to suppress a laugh. It was all too ridiculous. Two grown men acting like they were still about 8 years old. And yet it was unbearably beautiful too, these great men making peace at last.

'Perhaps we should decide on our weapons when the need arises again.'

They both looked around the room, blinking hard to conceal both their awkwardness and their tears.

'Right,' Mycroft said, clearing his throat. 'Pour yourselves some coffee, we need to get started. Time is of the essence.'

* * *

_Tomorrow, clearing up the political mess becomes an emotional debacle…_


	23. Chapter 23

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 23**

_A/N: Sorry for the late arrival of the Cuddle train today, poor health got in the way. Thank you as usual for your lovely comments. I think __**librarianmum**__'s suggestion of Buckeroo rather than Connect4 may merit a little fic all of its own. Any takers?_

_Today's episode is a late addition, as is tomorrow's, so may be a little rougher than usual for that. Sometimes, I have to stick a bit in unexpectedly as a result of reader feedback, and it means I don't get the time to digest and reread that I prefer. Let me know what you think anyway._

* * *

Four men, four chairs, one table, one interview room.

Sherlock and John sat on one side. Chief Superintendent Stanhope on the other. Baxter at the head. He had carefully orchestrated the seating arrangements before Stanhope had arrived. Clever, John concluded, putting the man at a disadvantage before a word had been spoken.

Baxter's golden presence seemed to fill the room as he opened a manila folder and perused the contents.

Stanhope glared at John and Sherlock. Sherlock picked at his nails. John tried to look anywhere but at the man whose nose he had broken eight months before.

'Well,' Baxter said finally with a sigh. He closed the folder.

'Am I going to have to just sit here and put up with this?' Stanhope snarled.

'With what?' Baxter raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

'Let's start with brazen disregard of the laws of the nation, shall we? Or how about grievous bodily harm and attacking an officer of the law in the execution of his duty?'

'Yes, how is the nose?' Sherlock said archly, and turned to John. 'Looks like a good job, the resetting, don't you think?' He eyed Stanhope. 'Who was your surgeon, I must recommend him to my brother-'

'Shut up, Sherlock,' John said.

'Yes, shut up, Sherlock,' Stanhope snapped. 'Don't you think because of some bloody Whitehall nepotism you are going to get away with this-'

'Oh, I think he is,' Baxter said calmly, and they all turned to look at him. He gave them a cunning smile and went on. 'Though not because of Whitehall nepotism. You see, Chief Superintendent, Mr Holmes has been undertaking an operation of great delicacy for the Crown, and whatever misdemeanours he and Dr Watson may have committed are null and void in the face of the services they have performed for the nation. At great personal cost, I hasten to add.'

'And I'm just supposed to put up and shut up, am I?'

'I rather think you are, yes.' John thought Baxter sounded _exactly_ like Mycroft then.

'Well, I won't. And neither will a lot of other people. We don't like nepotism in this country, Baxter. We don't stand for it.'

'And what do you propose to do about it?' Sherlock said.

'Keep investigating.'

'I don't think so,' Baxter told him.

'Oh, no? Well, what about the missing persons case involved? Where exactly is this Moriarty you keep talking about, eh?'

That thought had occurred to me, John thought but didn't say.

'And what about the burial? I'm getting an exhumation order through the courts as we speak!'

'Well, I suspect that an exhumation would be a good move,' Sherlock agreed.

Everyone looked amazed, not least Stanhope.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Lay a few ghosts to rest,' he went on. 'We don't want him becoming another conspiracy theory, after all. I, for one, would fully support a legal exhumation and autopsy.'

'You mean,' John stuttered, turning to Sherlock. 'I thought - its him? – In your grave, you mean?'

Sherlock nodded. He must have seen the horror dawning in John's features but he said nothing. Baxter looked serene and unruffled at the news.

'You made me bury – _him_?' John's stomach was churning with disgust.

'You murdered him,' Stanhope said with an unsightly relish.

'No, actually,' Sherlock remarked. 'I think the IRA did that years ago. I just happened to be present when the logical conclusion was reached.'

* * *

John and Sherlock, locked in a cell.

'Explain to me again why we are here?'

'Because Moriarty is dead and they need to publically prove it before we can move on. Stop worrying, it's just a formality.'

For a change it was John who was pacing up and down, and Sherlock who was sitting on the scratchy grey blanket, with a kind of Zen-like self-containment.

'I don't see why we have to hang around like this.'

'An exhumation can't be done during daylight hours,' Sherlock explained. 'Delicacies must be observed. They have to keep us here until it's underway. I presume Baxter has arranged for us to be present, but shutting us in a cell is a way for Stanhope to demonstrate his vitriol. We shouldn't deny him the little pleasures in life, really, should we? Considering he has so few?'

'Sherlock, don't be a bastard.'

The formerly dead detective smiled an evil smile, and pressed his fingertips together in their habitual arch.

'If you are bored, we could have sex? It would fill the time, and I'm sure no one is likely to look in on us, despite the requirements of the law regarding prisoner care and protection.'

'We are not having sex in a police cell!'

'Why not? It seems a perfectly-'

'No! Just – No, Sherlock!'

Sherlock sighed. 'Shame.'

'Look, what the fuck did you do? I mean, really? Could you just tell me, because I would like to know if I'm going to get locked up for it as well!'

'If you want me to explain, I suggest you sit down. I really can't talk to you while you are pacing up and down like a caged tiger.'

'That's rich! Now you know how I feel!'

'Sit down, John.'

John sat. He knitted his fingers together and tried hard not to panic. He didn't like enclosed spaces, but he wasn't going to let Sherlock in on that little secret, or the reasons behind it. Save that for another day. Besides, knowing Sherlock, he had probably already divined that little morsel of John's past.

'Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin,' Sherlock quoted.

'Don't fuck about, just get on with it.'

'I told you want happened,' Sherlock said. 'You were under threat. It became rapidly clear to me as the case progressed, and the press and police pressure mounted, that my only way of finding a solution to the problem was to excise myself from the situation. Oddly enough, there was one person who divined my purpose, someone who I never expected had the capacity to do so-'

'Your accomplice?'

'Yes. But as I said, I will never divulge to you that person's identity.'

'Probably a good idea, since I would probably wring their neck as soon as I found out!'

'I am surprised at you! I thought you were a healer, a man of peace.'

'I have bad days!' John nearly shouted. The nerves were getting a little too frayed. He sat tightly down, trying to settle himself, and after a moment, managed, 'Okay, just go on.'

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye.

'Moriarty really _did_ kill himself, John, as I said. I think he was relieved. He was aware of his own depravity, he wasn't that mad. He could still see himself relatively accurately. It didn't stop him doing evil, but he knew how sick he was. I still wonder if he was cleverer than me. I think it will haunt me for the rest of my life.'

Sherlock stopped, stared at the grey, peeling paint on the wall. John felt a pang. He rested a hand on his lover's thigh, and the motion seemed to bring Sherlock out of his reverie.

'He killed himself. He shot himself through the mouth. There is no way he could have survived such an injury as you know, but the wound was conveniently close in terms of superficial appearance to such as might be sustained by a fall from a five story building. Close enough to convince an identifying doctor who had been exposed to H.O.U.N.D gas that he was seeing his worst nightmare, anyway.'

'You dosed me?'

'The cyclist who knocked you over was in my employ. You saw what you feared most. For that I am flattered, if sorry. It was you who identified the body as mine and not Moriarty's.' Then Sherlock frowned. 'But Moran knew it wasn't me too. How did he find out?'

'No idea. Maybe your accomplice wasn't so loyal as you'd hoped.' John couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

'John, I know you are angry at me for not telling you, but please do not blame the person who tried to help me. It cost them dearly to do so, and they were not wholly willing when they discovered they would have to betray you.'

'So it's someone I know?'

'I have already said too much.'

John burst onto his feet and started stomping about again. 'For fuck's sake, what's taking so long?'

'Is this claustrophobia a new phenomenon, or a long term problem?' Sherlock asked him archly.

'I should fucking break _your_ nose, you know that?' John snarled, turning on him. 'Knocking you out of bed was a picnic compared to what I'm going to do to you when we get out of here!'

'A suite of broken noses is hardly a solution.'

'I don't fucking care!' John was shrieking now. 'You pretended to be dead, Sherlock! You have no idea what I went through! And now I find out I buried Moriarty in your grave! You fucking, fucking bastard!'

Other prisoners started banging on the walls, muffled angry shouts entreating them to quieten down, but John's blood was racing, the terror was in his heart, and the rage was the perfect way to vent it.

'You're angry,' Sherlock said, and his eyes looked sad. 'I'm surprised it took you this long.'

'You're damn right I'm fucking angry!'

They were suddenly both on their feet, facing one another.

'Alright,' Sherlock said, twitching his fingers at John. 'Come on, give me your best shot.'

It took the custody sergeant and his assistant several minutes to separate and restrain them, and by that time, everybody was heaving for breath and extensively bruised. However, the positive upshot was that they both had been dragged out of the tiny cell. John lay on the corridor floor with a burly copper on top of him, railing against his lover, while Sherlock had been pinned face first against the wall, his arms knotted behind his back.

'You bastard, you utter, utter bastard!' John screamed at him.

'Do try and think of another descriptor, darling, the villains are complaining,' Sherlock hissed, his cheek compressed against the plaster.

In other cells, confined men and women were shouting and banging on the doors.

'Brilliant, you caused a riot,' said a sarcastic voice. Baxter had appeared from the direction of the custody desk, Stanhope in tow. 'Do you think you can manage _not_ to tear each other's heads off long enough to attend this exhumation, or do we have to lock you in separate cells while we do it?'

'Just fucking get me out of here,' John snarled, 'And I'll do anything, up to and including dancing bare-arsed for the Queen!'

'Yes, I'm sure you would,' Baxter said, glittering slightly. 'And what a delightful prospect that would be.'

* * *

_Tomorrow, the exhumation and its emotional fall-out…._


	24. Chapter 24

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 24**

_A/N: Thank you once again for all the reviews. I am glad I have converted Mirith to feeling some affection for Mycroft, he's lovely really. And as for John being an 'angry hobbit', I don't think the storm is over by any means, but it's a start._

_So, finally we get to the eponymous exhumation…_

* * *

'You could have told me,' John growled under his breath. They were standing side by side in the dripping cemetery, watching a digger excavate Sherlock's grave by the light of an array of arc lamps that ran from an extremely noisy generator. Nearby, a troop of forensics officers in white overalls were waiting with a tent to cover the hole when the coffin was reached.

'No I couldn't. You are unable to control your emotions. You have just amply demonstrated that. You would have betrayed the truth to your assassin, even if you had not meant to. It was a risk I just couldn't take.'

Sherlock stood swaying in the rain, droplets of water sparkling in his fringe. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat.

'I will not risk your life, John,' he continued. 'I love you too much. That may sound ridiculous under the circumstances, but it's true.'

'You love me so much you'd consciously drive me insane to keep me safe?'

Sherlock turned miserable eyes on him. 'Yes. Because at least you would be alive.'

There was a shout. A man who was hovering at the edge of the hole threw his arm in the air at the same time as they heard a hollow scrape of metal against wood. The digger operator lifted the scoop out of the hole and switched off the engine. They had reached the coffin.

There was the white nylon tent, and the white disposable overalls. There was the smell of wet earth and the heat of too many bodies crammed under the canopy. The coffin was carefully lifted out with an electric winch. It swung uncertainly in the air for a moment, twirling on its rope.

'It's a nice coffin,' Sherlock said. 'Glad you spent the extra on the brass handles.'

'Shut up, Sherlock,' John said, as a thick clod of earth fell off the bottom and back into the hole. His eyes were flooding.

* * *

'Well?' Stanhope stood over the table, eying the white shroud.

'The senior pathologist isn't here yet,' Molly said, her face white with shock. She had collapsed into hysterics when Sherlock had walked into the morgue.

'We don't need him,' Stanhope snapped back, clearly in no mood to make allowances for her shock. She glanced up at Sherlock.

'If he wants to see, let him see,' Sherlock told her kindly.

John thought, something's wrong here. But he couldn't fathom what. His head was still spinning with the bubble of anger that the sight of the coffin had punctured. Because it didn't matter in the end what had happened, or what Sherlock had done. That dirty wooden box had reminded him what was important.

He had buried it in the belief that it contained the last mortal remains of the man he loved more than anyone. That beautiful, sinuous, entrancing body he had come to know so deeply, to love so tenderly. He had stood at the edge of that hole and realised that those warm arms would never embrace him again. That Sherlock's sweetly scented skin would no longer be there for him to press his face into, to kiss and caress.

With that box, his world had ended.

Now his world was standing within touching distance, tall and graceful and sporting a selection of florid bruises. And not even remotely dead.

Unlike the man on the table.

The man John hated more than life itself.

Molly drew back the sheet.

The body had been embalmed. John had seen a lot of things in his time, including severely decomposed bodies. Quite a number of them. Moriarty was not decomposed.

But his eyes were open.

And empty.

It was the worst thing John had ever seen.

He was a strong man, but he would never forget those empty sockets. Before he knew what was happening, he was running for the sink.

'Dr Watson appears to have a more delicate stomach than we assumed,' Baxter said, as he walked in. 'Is it him?'

'Oh yes,' Molly said, staring at the eviscerated face.

'And you are?' Baxter glittered at her. She gave him a look and turned away, heading for the door.

'A former acquaintance of James Moriarty,' Sherlock said as they both watched her leave. 'He used to work in the building, in the IT department. A cover.'

'Oh.' Baxter was obviously a little perplexed that his Adonis glow had not worked on her.

John, even with his head hanging over a sink full of vomit, felt proud. That kind of rubbish doesn't work on Our Moll anymore, he thought. Moriarty proofed her against spin once and for all. Bless her. He hauled himself upright, wiped his mouth with a tissue and ran the taps.

'So, are we done here?' he croaked.

They all looked at Stanhope.

'I want DNA samples before I'm satisfied.'

'However, since DNA analysis can take months now the Government has axed the Forensic Science Laboratories Service, I think we can assume that Mr Holmes and Dr Watson are no longer in custody.'

'If I had my way-' Stanhope said, turning on him.

'But you don't, so I would advise you not to finish that sentence.'

Stanhope stormed out.

John wiped his hand over his face and looked at them both.

'Is there any chance of tea?' he asked.

'What are you going to do with us now?' Sherlock asked Baxter.

'If I leave you alone, are you going to try to throttle each other again?'

Sherlock looked at John.

'I think I've got that out of my system for a while,' he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Thank God for that!'

'Well, then, as the good doctor suggests, tea next, I think. And then a safe house.

* * *

Baxter had gone off to make some arrangements. John and Sherlock sat dolefully opposite each other in the station canteen, waiting for Mycroft's next team of goons to come and collect them. They each cupped a mug of milky tea in their hands, and stared at the meniscus, watching the bubbles revolve on the top.

Sherlock took a sip. Wrinkled his nose.

'How's yours?' he asked.

John did likewise. It was basically hot water with a dash too much milk in it. He gagged.

'Not good?'

'Bit not good, yeah.'

Their eyes met.

'John, I-'

'Don't, love, just don't.'

They were silent for a while, while coppers around them clattered cutlery and thumped trays.

'I lost you,' John said quietly. 'You died, and I lost everything.'

'I know.'

'No, I don't think you do. I don't think you can ever understand. I will _never_ get over looking into that hole at your coffin and knowing I'd never hold you again.' He looked steadily into Sherlock's eyes. 'No more cuddles. Not ever.'

It must have been written in his face. Sherlock paled. He had seen the shadow that would haunt the gaze of John Watson from that day forward, the realisation that one day, no matter what either of them did, it would happen again, and there was no escaping it.

Sherlock reached out and lifted John's hand to his lips. His eyes were full of tears.

* * *

_Tomorrow, Baxter does his twinkling thing for the cameras of the national press…_


	25. Chapter 25

**Three Weddings Part1**

**Chapter 25**

_A/N: thank you as always for your feedback. Thanks especially go to __**CuriousAccident **__and __**NinjaBearClaw**__ for agreeing with me on the loss of the Forensic Science Laboratory Services, cut by our government in a misguided attempt at financial prudence. I won't go on about this because I'll just rant and you'll get bored._

_I just looked at the word count of the master document for this story. It has reached 47,500. And its only half finished. Oh My Gods, what have I done?! I'm writing a bloody novel!_

_Oh well, don't say you weren't warned. Here's today's chunk, with more of Baxter's patent twinkliness:_

* * *

Baxter was shrewd. Sherlock actually seemed impressed. He had Chief Superintendent Stanhope sitting next to him at the press conference, and he was dripping sex appeal and good natured bonhomie. The journalists were eating out of his hand. John wondered if Sherlock was finally beginning to understand how crucial a weapon the media could be in the war against crime. Moriarty had certainly understood it, and had managed to turn it against Sherlock to devastating effect. The press conference they were witnessing, courtesy of a 24 hour news channel, was Mycroft's counterblast.

Mycroft flopped down onto the white leather sofa with a bowl of popcorn in his hand and, from the noise he made, instantly regretted it.

'Did you take those codeine tablets I gave you?' John asked him.

'Hmpf,' he said in typically Holmesian way.

'Stanhope doesn't look very happy,' John observed. In fact, he looked like a dog that had been tied up six feet from a butchers' waste pile.

'He's going to eat you alive if he gets hold of you,' Mycroft crunched.

Sherlock took a handful of kernels for himself and passed the bowl along the sofa to his lover. 'But he's not going to get hold of me, is he?'

'No,' Mycroft grinned, and then regretted that too.

'You will find in front of you a complete document, giving details of Mr Holmes's investigations during recent months, though you'll appreciate that, for the sake of National Security, some information has been held back.' Baxter was holding court like a film star, and he was entrancing to watch.

The journalists clamoured to ask questions.

'Where is Sherlock now?' was the one that won his attention.

'He is currently being debriefed at a secure facility regarding his work on the recent bombings in the Charing Cross Road area.'

John sniggered at that.

'Chief Superintendent Stanhope, where does this leave your investigation of Mr Holmes's activities?'

Stanhope's face took on a thunderous hue. 'It seems I no longer have an investigation,' he snarled.

'Wouldn't the public purse have been better served had you known that Mr Holmes was working for the Intelligence Services?'

'Of course, it would have saved a great deal of taxpayers' money. But that's something you'll have to ask Mr Baxter about.'

'It was necessary to keep Mr Holmes's involvement with us covert in order to complete the mission in a timely and satisfactory manner. I think that the public will understand that the amount spent on Chief Superintendent Stanhope's inquiry pales into insignificance compared with the amount saved in terms of money and lives by the elimination of a crime and terror syndicate as massive as the Moriarty Group.'

Baxter glittered, and the flash bulbs went off.

'He's very good at that, isn't he,' Sherlock observed. 'That twinkling thing he does.'

'One of my best boys,' Mycroft said, oozing smugness.

'So how long were you two together?' Sherlock's non-sequitur had John goggling. Mycroft barely skipped a breath.

'He was a brief amusement,' he said.

'A very pretty one, though.'

John felt a prickle of jealousy rearing its head. Sherlock clearly was not immune to Tim Baxter's good looks either.

'Do you know, I think you've actually loosened one of my teeth,' Mycroft said, picking at his molar through the side of his mouth.

'What does Greg think about it,' Sherlock pressed him.

'Come to think of it, where is Greg?' John interjected, trying to get his lover off the subject.

'Oh, he's staying with Trudy and the children until you two can go home. He said he couldn't be trusted not to "punch Sherlock's lights out", as he put it.'

'He's going to be even more delighted when he sees the state of you now,' John said, shaking his head.

'Still holding a candle for you, though,' Sherlock said.

'I should hope so, I'm taking him to Antigua,' Mycroft pointed out.

'Not Greg, I mean Baxter.'

'Oh, no, that's all in the past.'

'Not from the way he was ogling your bum the other morning,' John said and they both turned and looked at him aghast. He shrugged. 'Just saying.'

'Well, if John noticed, it must be obvious,' Sherlock said.

John scowled at the implication.

'He certainly was a very decorative addition to life,' Mycroft sighed at the telly, where Baxter was fielding questions on Moriarty's connections with ETA, courtesy of the contents of the little flash drive that Sherlock had brought home with him

'Not thinking of cheating on Greg, I hope,' Sherlock reprimanded.

'Not at all, not at all. I have everything I could ever want.' He didn't sound convinced, especially since Baxter was now flashing his devastating smile at the female political editor of ITV news.

Sherlock shook his head in exasperation. 'You've always been such a tart for a pretty face.'

'Entente cordiale,' John pointed out and gave the popcorn back to Sherlock. 'Am I going to spend the rest of my life refereeing you two, or what?'

'No, no, Sherlock is right, I must rein myself in a little in my twilight years,' Mycroft nodded.

Concern stirred in John's mind. He liked Greg. A lot. There weren't many people he would count as close friends, but Greg was one. He didn't like the thought of Mycroft's wobbling commitment. To his amazement, Sherlock suddenly articulated his unease.

'Don't ruin a good thing, Moff. Greg's the best man you'll ever find, so keep your dick in your pants.'

Mycroft and John both gave Sherlock shocked looks.

He shrugged. 'Just saying,' he said, innocently.

The door opened, and Anthea popped her head around. 'The car has just arrived to take you to the hospital, sir,' she said.

'Ah, yes. Thank you.' Mycroft got to his feet with some difficulty, clutching at his side. 'Well, I shall leave you two boys to enjoy the show. I don't know what time I'll be back. Order yourselves in some supper if you get hungry, the number is on the side.'

And he was gone.

John picked up the remote and flicked the telly off. He didn't want to look at Baxter's twinkling face any longer.

'So what was all that about?'

'What?' Sherlock cradled the popcorn bowl in the crook of his arm, and delved in it hungrily.

'Needling Mycroft about his sex life.'

Sherlock made a thoughtful face. 'I messed up with you. I don't want him to mess up with Greg. That's all.'

'You didn't mess up with me,' John told him, slipping an arm around his shoulders. Sherlock snuggled down, rested his head against John's chest.

'Yes I did. I hurt you. I'm not sure Greg is as forgiving as you are. I know it's not the same thing. I betrayed your trust. It's not like I slept with someone else. I wouldn't be capable of it, you know that. Still.'

'I know what you mean, though.'

They sat there in silence for a while. The bifold doors were open and traffic noises floated up from the streets below. Over the river, Big Ben chimed. The flagstones on the patio baked in the sun. A pigeon landed on the railing and cooed petulantly.

'I wouldn't do that, you know,' Sherlock said presently. 'Cheat on you. Even if I could.'

John felt like a heel for hating Baxter then. For being jealous when he had nothing to be jealous about.

'I wouldn't cheat on you either,' he said.

Sherlock smiled into John's shirt. 'I think we established that fairly effectively with the plan to get you to go off and forget me.'

'Yep.' John pulled him close and let out a contented sigh.

'Cuddling really does have its merits, doesn't it,' Sherlock said.

* * *

_Tomorrow, creating a little steam in the bathroom…_


	26. Chapter 26

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 26**

_A/N: Thank you to everyone for your continued support. We might make it up to 200 reviews today!  
_

_(I had my first dream about Benny last night. He danced through my head entired dressed in white, white tie, white top hat and tails. Its amazing what the brain will do, isn't it?)  
_

_**Warning:**__ Men going at it. Includes some mention of sexual angst. Does what it says on the tin._

* * *

Their attempt to raid the kitchen when they got hungry proved abortive. The two men who inhabited the flat seemed to do so on a barely perceptible level. The fridge was bare of pretty much everything but the remains of the morning's breakfast – primarily orange juice, and the rest of the coffee – and the obligatory mouldy cheese rind and limp lettuce leaf. The cupboards were hardly better. In the end, they settled for sharing a packet of Knorr Savoury Rice rather than ringing Mycroft's caterers. It must have been left over from Greg's days in his bachelor flat because it tasted fusty, and when John looked at the packet, the 'Use By' date was a distant memory. Then Sherlock found the freezer.

'Ben and Jerry's!' he squeaked.

There followed the mutual ice-cream feeding ritual. At least it meant they could face the night with full stomachs, even if there was not much in the way of vitamins and minerals in what they had eaten.

John decided he would have a shower before bed. It was his usual routine, and since Mycroft had not returned, he assumed it would be alright. He left Sherlock flicking irritably through the television channels, trying to avoid his own face on the news, and buried himself in the bathroom.

It was an impressive set-up. A digital music system was wired throughout the flat, but he found a control panel that allowed him to change the music in the bathroom to suit himself. He chose some mellow ambient jazz.

The light system was interesting too. Not only was it possible to dim the level of light, but to switch it from overhead, or over the mirror above the basin, to uplighters inside the shower cubical and even in the bath. He was delighted to find that the colours could be changed too. He finally settled on a soft rosy uplighting in the shower, and pulled a fat fluffy towel out of the airing cupboard for when he was finished.

The shower itself was just about the best it could be. The showerhead was huge. It sprayed water in thick streams over his body. The room quickly filled with steam. It was a cool night and there was a brisk breeze coming off the river, so he was glad of the warmth. He let the water fall down his back, warming the muscles, easing the ache in his damaged shoulder. There was a bottle of bay-scented body shampoo on the rack, and he helped himself. It smelt expensive and slightly medicinal. He wondered whose it was, Mycroft's or Greg's.

He had just started massaging it in wide circles into his chest when he became aware of a figure through the spray-beaded glass partition. A tall, slim, pale figure. Naked.

Sherlock slipped in through the cubical door and shut it carefully behind him. He had a serious expression on his face, deep and tender.

John pulled him in, letting his arms circle the slender body, hands skimming the lean flanks. Water sluiced over them. Mouths met, melted together. John felt the shock of Sherlock's skin the length of his own body, the concealed strength in that sinuous body.

'I want you,' Sherlock breathed in his ear over the roar of the water.

John pulled back so that he could look up into those silver-grey eyes, touching his love's cheek with his fingertips. Drops of water clung to Sherlock's fringe, weighing the curls down. The face that looked back was gaunt, weathered by life's recent storms, the eyes haunted by the fear of loss.

'You can have me,' John told him.

Sherlock claimed his mouth, and then his body, with strong lips and hands. He was a different man now, John realised, revelling in the touch of clever fingertips as they traced the planes of his chest and back, the curve of his buttocks. Sherlock would never have asked for what he needed before. He had come home with a new sexual confidence. He was hungry for love. He had finally come to believe that he deserved it. And that this, this physical touch, was part of what love was. No longer something dirty or abusive, it had become the expression of what was between them, a symbiosis of mind and body, a deeper connection of soul with soul. They had taken a great leap forward.

The formerly dead detective pressed his blogger back against the tiles, ravishing his mouth like a starving man. John was getting harder by the moment, his erection jutting out from the base of his belly and digging into Sherlock's thigh as he pressed in. The water striking his skin heightened the sensation, the drumming of the spray on his body, the way it cascaded down the small of Sherlock's back, where John's hand lingered, and over his magnificent backside.

John could not help himself. He grabbed a handful of buttock, and Sherlock gasped with pleasure. Things had definitely changed since the first time they had shared a shower. Sherlock could take it a bit rough now. He had no fear that John would hurt him. What he felt instead was desire.

Hungry, he sucked on John's lobe, and then whispered into his ear.

'I want you so much.' It was almost a moan.

John's hand closed on the nape of Sherlock's neck, on the streaming hair there, and gripped.

'Oh, God, yes,' John gasped.

Sherlock thrust hips up against John in response, moaning softly. John had to put a hand between their bodies to reposition his cock in a comfortable place, pressing it belly to belly.

'I learnt about a trick,' Sherlock breathed.

'What?' John was quivering now at the feel of his lover's hard muscles against him, the friction of his cock being compressed and dragged by their movement.

'Soap your cock and my thighs and you can fuck me there,' Sherlock panted, as if he was almost ashamed to speak the words.

John looked up into his eyes, astonished. 'Do you want that?'

Sherlock nodded, his eyes bright with need.

John picked up the expensive shower gel again, emptied some more out onto his palm. He positioned them both a little way out of the jet of water, so that they could enjoy the foaming lubrication without it being washed off too quickly. To manage it, he would need some purchase. Seeing this, Sherlock instantly stood with his back to the wall.

'I'm going to touch you,' John said. Sherlock nodded.

It was a delicate operation. As always, he was aware that one false move could trigger a flashback, but he hoped that the long months of yearning had created enough desire to over-ride that mechanism. Making love to Sherlock was a responsibility that John took very seriously. He gently set about caressing his lover, smoothing his foaming hands over the lean torso and down the long thighs. Sherlock sighed with pleasure at his touch. Once the legs were thoroughly bubbly and slick, he worked up, until he could cup Sherlock's delicious soft penis in his hand, massaging his balls, making them slippery and satisfying.

Sherlock moaned.

'You touch me,' John pleaded, and Sherlock scooped up some foam and began to work it into John's lower body too, thighs, belly, groin, then his towering cock and taut balls. God, it was so good to be touched. They had made love several times since Sherlock's return, but it had not been like this, so mutual, so sensuous. John was tingling all over.

They stood there for a long while, immersed in soaping one another, in the slippery sensations of touch and pleasure.

'So good,' Sherlock breathed, almost in awe.

John was panting now. Sherlock had become expert at working his hand on John's shaft, knew exactly how to drive him wild. It wasn't going to take long at this rate, and John wanted to try the new position before it was too late.

'Can I?'

Sherlock pulled him closer. 'Do it.'

John gripped the base of his member and guided it between Sherlock's hard thighs. It was the only time the height difference between them was an advantage, John realised. He was in just the right place to brush against Sherlock's scrotum and perineum as he slid back and forth. Sherlock tensed his muscles and gripped him, making as tight an aperture as he could.

'Fuck me,' he breathed.

The tall man pressed his back against the tiles and took John's weight, clenching his legs together, and John slithered smoothly in.

'Oh, God,' he moaned.

'Is it good?'

'So good!'

'More.'

John's body seemed to take over. His hips began to pump without his conscious intervention. The soap made a perfect lubricant, the skin and hot, hard flesh the perfect foil for pleasure. John angled himself up to be sure he was stroking Sherlock in the right place as well. He was rewarded with pants and soft moans.

'Tell me,' he growled.

'Yes, good, so good,' Sherlock gasped. 'More, more.'

The water crashed down his back, sluicing over the backs of his thighs, and he began to thrust in earnest. It was not like real penetration, but it was good, and so much better than even the best blow job because they were face to face, chest to chest, belly to belly, sharing a hungry communion of the body. Sherlock mashed his lips to John's, thrusting his tongue down his throat in time to the pumping of their hips together. He flexed his thigh muscles in response to every forward stroke, and the pleasure began to build to critical levels inside John's pelvis.

'Oh, God, yes!' he cried out, breaking away from Sherlock's mouth. It was so good, so very, very good.

And then Sherlock did something extraordinary.

He slid his hand down the crease between John's buttocks. The light brush of slippery fingertips against John's anus pushed him unexpectedly over the edge and he came, thrusting violently, and crying out incoherent non-words of need and lust. They subsided against the wall, trembling and weak, the water thrumming on their skins.

* * *

_Tomorrow, Mycroft comes to a decision…_


	27. Chapter 27

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 27**

_A/N: So now I've got everybody worked into a lather, its time for some special fluff. And as its my birthday today (yay!) I'm dedicating it to:_

_** ALL OF YOU LOVELY READERS. **_

_Because I can. You are all wonderful. Thank you._

* * *

'They're making mincemeat of us,' he shouted. 'The Today programme was a massacre this morning, and I've got PM's questions later. What the hell do you propose I say?'

'If you read the briefing document, Prime Minister-'

'Nepotism, M. The worst word in British politics, do you understand that? Sanctioning a faked death is one thing, but when it's your own brother-'

'I assure you, Prime Minister, he was the best man for the job. He was in the right place at the right time, and he has the mind to be able to handle the complexity.'

The Prime Minister shook his head. 'The back benches do not like nepotism, M.'

'The back benches do not like anything. That is their job. Mine is to protect the British public from the likes of James Moriarty. That has been accomplished. Perhaps presenting this as a victory for democracy might be a useful approach.'

The nation's leader picked up the brief and flipped through it with a sigh. Then he glanced up at his spymaster.

'What _did_ happen to your face?'

'The Dissident IRA 'happened' to it. I intend to see that it does not 'happen' to it again.'

'Weren't you supposed to be at the UN for us this week?'

'They were willing to postpone the meeting in response to our current security alert.

'Yes, I can imagine.' The politician stopped and thought, looking out onto the empty street below. 'Being able to report progress on the Charing Cross bombings might be a useful distraction,' he suggested, shrewdly.

Mycroft gave him his best reptilian smile. 'Then it is fortunate that we arrested two of the cell this morning in Hounslow, Prime Minister.'

'Really?' The leader's smile showed he was on precisely the same wavelength.

'We expect further progress imminently. Sherlock is on the case.'

'Well,' the Prime minister grinned. 'That should cheer the back benches up considerably.'

'I do hope so, Prime Minister. I do hope so.'

* * *

Leaving Number 10, Mycroft directed his new driver to drop him at the gates of Hyde Park. He missed Clive. Clive knew exactly what his boss wanted before he asked. Clive would have known that Mycroft needed some private time to contemplate the situation before returning to his office on high. But Clive was still in intensive care with the head injuries sustained when the Mercedes limousine hit the brewery lorry side on, and although he had regained consciousness, he would not be back at work for some considerable time. Mycroft made a mental note to ask Anthea to send Clive a suitable gift. In the meantime, he wandered out across the neatly manicured lawns, enjoying the colours of the flower beds and the susurration of the breeze in the trees. His side was killing him, his right eye was almost entirely closed up, and he wouldn't breathe through his nose, but he didn't care. Sherlock was alive, Moriarty was dead, and Greg loved him. He might not be going to Antigua for the weekend, but he had thought of a good alternative plan.

He watched the sun glitter on the rippling lake. Clarity came to him, a kind of clarity he could never have achieved in the stuffy reading room of the Diogenes Club, where he normally went after his meetings with the Prime Minister. For the first time that he could remember, he actually thought seriously about his own future, and not that of the Service, or the Nation. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and rang a familiar number.

'Lestrade.'

'Greg, it's me.'

'Oh, sorry, I didn't recognise the number.'

'I borrowed a company phone. Can you talk?'

'Bit difficult, I'm in a case conference right now.'

'Perfect, the usual suspects?'

He could practically hear Greg looking around the room at the yeasty faces of his subordinates. 'Yep.'

'Good, can you put me on loud speaker?'

'Oh. Okay.'

There was a crackle, and suddenly Mycroft could hear the slight echo that indicated Greg's phone was picking up the sounds in the conference room.

'This is Mycroft Holmes. You all know me, or know of me, I presume, so I won't bother with much preamble. You know that I am a very powerful man, which is why I have no qualms about breaking into what I am sure is a very important case conference to do what I am about to do. I require you all to be witnesses. Do you agree?'

There was a collective mumbled assent.

'Greg, are you there?'

'Here, Mycroft.' Greg always called him by his full name in front of other people, which made him feel they had a shared conspiracy.

'Greg, will you marry me?'

Mycroft heard a stifled giggle. 'Anderson, I am sure I don't have to remind you that _I know where you live_?'

There was a faintly audible intake of breath.

'Greg, your silence is not exactly filling me with optimism'

'Yes,' Greg blurted out. 'Yes, I will. But you know I don't really have a good track record with these things.'

'That's only because you didn't marry me the first time,' Mycroft told him, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. He was sure he was probably close to eclipsing the sun with his grin at this point.

'Now, all of you,' he said. 'Bugger off and find something to occupy yourselves with elsewhere for ten minutes, because I want to whisper sweet nothings into your venerable leader's shell-like.'

He could hear the scraping of chairs and fluttering of papers. Someone, who sounded like Donovan perhaps, said 'Congratulations, sir,' in a slightly doleful way. Mycroft found it rather odd to find himself the object of her envy. Finally, he heard the click of the door shutting, and Greg said, 'Right, they've gone. Now what brought this on?'

Mycroft laughed.

Jane Austen had the tact never to detail the exact words of proposal and amour that her characters used. In that spirit, you will not hear, dear Reader, how Mycroft showered adoration upon his darling Inspector, nor how Greg took being told that his love was the only thing worth living for. You will not hear their shared disbelief at what they had just agreed, in front of witnesses, or their conjecture at how various relatives might react. You will not find detailed here the promises as regards a certain amount of rogering to be undertaken to seal the deal when they arrived home that night, or of the promised obscene peccadillos that would embroider that undefined copulatory experience. And you will certainly not find me describing, oh faithful Reader, the reason Mycroft Holmes came to be walking rather gingerly when he arrived to brief the Defence Select Committee the following morning.

* * *

_Tomorrow, John and Sherlock face the cameras together…_


	28. Chapter 28

**Three Weddings Part 1**

** Chapter 28**

_A/N: Thank you so much for last night's flood of reviews! I woke up this morning (eventually) to a mass of lovely emails. Could I have had a better present? Well, only if it involved a certain gentleman smothered in Nutella, I suspect! :-) Especial kudos goes to** DamienNOLA** who this weekend read EVERYTHING I've written, and then commented on it all as well! I am slightly in awe that I can have that effect on someone. So I must be doing something right._

_Anyway, aren't we supposed to be doing some story thingey together? Oh yes..._

* * *

Meanwhile, in Baker Street, another black Mercedes slid up to a kerb and was instantly smothered by clamouring journalists and photographers.

'Oh, God,' Sherlock groaned.

'Just smile and let me do the talking,' Baxter reassured.

John was not reassured any more than Sherlock was, but he still got out of the car when he was bid. It was like walking into a riot. Cameras were forced into his face, people were shouting and shoving. Baxter got out and pushed the mob back a little. Then Sherlock rose from behind the door to a blinding fusillade of flash guns. He screwed up his face involuntarily, and allowed himself to be steered to the doorstep of 221B and positioned beside John for the promised photo opp. Hidden by the folds of his long overcoat, John's fingers searched Sherlock's out and held on tight. John knew it was going to be bad, but he had never dreamed it would be this bad. Everyone was screaming Sherlock's name, trying to get him to look this way or that, trying to get him to answer questions.

'Sherlock, are you glad to be back?'

'Sherlock, are you at liberty to publish your memoirs?'

'John, are you going to write an account of Sherlock's absence?'

'John, did you know the truth about Sherlock's death?'

'Sherlock, how did you fake it?'

'Who's in the grave, Sherlock?'

'Sherlock, are you seeing anyone?'

That was the one that got Sherlock's attention. He turned his head and gave the woman his most dazzling smile, one that could rival Baxter's any time.

'Technically, I'm seeing you,' he said.

'Are you dating?' The woman giggled.

'Let's just say I'm spoken for,' he told her.

John didn't know what the hell that meant.

'John! John, how does it feel to have Sherlock back home after so long?'

John was blushing to the roots. 'Great, thanks, yeah,' he said, feeling rather inarticulate.

'Who's in the grave, Sherlock?' Someone persisted from the back. 'How did you do it?'

John thought for a horrible moment that he saw a flash of ginger hair, but he must have imagined it. Baxter finally chose this moment to chip in.

'Any information about the precise details of the operation to extract Mr Holmes that can be released, _was_ released in the document issued by the Home Office earlier. That's all that we can say at this time.'

'Yes, but-'

'John, are you and Sherlock dating?'

'Er?'

Sherlock turned and looked down at John, and then without a further hesitation, craned his lionine head down and kissed him full on the lips. The world went white with flashes. John felt his eyelashes whisper against Sherlock's razorblade cheekbones, as the light blasted purple blotches and the ghosts of veins on the backs of his eyes. Then Sherlock was smiling down at him again, gazing into his eyes, just as he had that first morning when they had woken together at the hotel after so long apart, and John's heart gave a little back flip, and he realised he was going to look like a lovesick puppy on every single tabloid cover tomorrow morning.

'Confirmed bachelor,' he growled at his lover, and Sherlock smirked. And lifted his head to defy the crowd with a grin.

'Does that answer your question?'

'Yes, I think that's enough now,' Baxter said, and hustled them in through the lacquered front door.

* * *

Sherlock snatched up the Lady Belle and played a sprightly rendition of the cheesy old classic, 'Welcome Home', then launched into 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon', which made Mrs Hudson laugh and clap her hands in delight. John grinned to himself and wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

'He's quite something, isn't he?' Baxter had drifted kitchenwards too.

'Yep.' John smiled to himself as he dropped tea bags into the pot. He could feel himself prickling with jealousy, but he tried to ignore it.

'So you and him-'

'Yep.' Since he was being asked, he decided to stake out his territory as clearly as possible.

'Shame.'

'Is it?' He glanced up at Baxter, and saw a wry smile in his eyes.

'I was going to ask you out,' the tall spy said.

John dropped the spoon he had been toying with, making Baxter laugh.

'I see you totally misread my meaning. One Holmes in a lifetime is enough for any man. More than enough.'

'Er-' John didn't quite know what to say. 'Well, thanks for the offer, but as you see, I'm spoken for. Besides, I'm not gay.'

'Not gay.' He looked extremely sceptical.

'Nope.'

'Just Sherlock then.'

'Yep.' He opened the fridge and hooked out the milk. 'You and Mycroft, though?'

'Oh, that ship has sailed.'

'Are you sure about that?'

Baxter raised an eyebrow, and John was struck by just how similar he was to Mycroft in so many ways.

'You were looking him over pretty intensively the other morning,' he pointed out.

'If I was, it was entirely subconscious, I assure you.'

'I hope so. Greg's my friend, and Mycroft is practically family now, so I don't want to see what they have messed up.'

Baxter examined him with that shrewd look he was beginning to get used to.

'What?'

He laughed. 'Mycroft is right about you,' he said.

'What? That I'm an ignorant pleb?'

'He said you were an extraordinary man, and he was right.'

* * *

'Sherlock?'

'Mmmmm.' The formerly dead detective was lying on his side, snuggled up against his blogger, who was staring at the darkened ceiling.

'Sherlock, what happens now?'

'Don't know.'

'Please, I need to talk about this.'

He rolled over with a huff. 'Can't it wait until its light? I've got some serious sleep to catch up on.'

'Just humour me, okay? What's going to happen? I mean, everything is going to change, isn't it? Now you're the nation's favourite hero. You'll probably get a knighthood. Actually, that would be ironic, wouldn't it, you getting yours before Mycroft gets his.'

'Mycroft doesn't need one, he's already in the Lords.'

John sat bolt upright. 'What?'

Sherlock huffed again. 'You see, that's why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd react this way.'

'This way? What way?'

'Getting all – well – huffy about it.'

'I'm not huffy. I'm just – I can't believe you didn't tell me! He's really a duke or something?'

'Viscount.'

'A Viscount?'

'Yes. Eighth Viscount Holmes of Sandon and Blaine, to be exact.'

'Eighth?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.' John thought about this. 'So what does that make you?'

'Just an Honourable, I'm afraid.'

'Just? Just?'

'You see?' Sherlock turned over so that his back was to John. 'There's no point in talking when you're like this. Anyone would think it was a big deal or something.'

'Do you actually live in the real world, Sherlock? No, you probably never have. Not if you're aristocracy-'

'Minor aristocracy.'

'Sherlock, this is important!'

'No, really John, its not! You and me being together is important. Catching Moran before he can hurt anybody else is important. Solving crimes is important. Titles, in the broad scheme of things, really are _not_.'

John flopped back onto the bed. 'So is that what we're going to do? Catch Moran and go back to solving cases?'

'That's the plan. After a rather large amount of sleep.'

John stared at the ceiling.

Sherlock sat up. 'Alright, out with it.'

'I just wonder if you are ever going to be able to fade into a crowd again. Life is going to be very different for us when the papers come out tomorrow. We'll probably be asked to do a cover shoot for Gay Times, or be guest judges on X Factor.

'There'll be a big fuss for a couple of months and then it will all die down, and we can go back to doing what we do best.'

'I hope so. I really hope you're right.'

'Can I get to sleep now?'

'Okay then.'

They settled down into the darkness once more. Sherlock was just starting to snore very softly when John's voice pierced the darkness once more.

'Does Greg know?'

* * *

_Tomorrow, Greg gets the shock of his life..._


	29. Chapter 29

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 29**

_A/N: Wow, 217 reviews! I was a little shocked that everyone liked yesterday's chapter so much. I put it up thinking it was a filler. Just goes to show how hard it is to see your own work. Thank you to everyone who commented therefore. Your feedback always enlightens me._

_(You can see a picture of the house I used as inspiration for Sandon Court, Mycroft's house, on my Livejournal and Tumblr accounts, at evenlode1967 dot livejournal dot com or evenlode dot tumbr dot com.)  
_

_So now the crunch comes for Greg..._

* * *

A weekend away in the country, Mycroft had said. At my place, he said. I've got a house in North Oxfordshire. As if it was nothing special. No big deal. But Greg knew that Mycroft taking a weekend off was a really big deal. Especially now, with all this renewed dissident Republican activity. Never mind the fuss being made about Sherlock in the papers. And the state Mycroft was in.

Those ribs. That nose. It broke Greg's heart just to look at him. No flying, the consultant had said. Mycroft was booked in for the operation on Tuesday morning. He'd be out of hospital the next day. Probably back at work that afternoon, even if he was still groggy from the anaesthetic. That was Mycroft.

Greg was sad to miss out on Antigua, but there would always be another time, and he was in the middle of a big armed robbery investigation, so it was probably a good thing that he was only away for the weekend. A bit of country air would do them both good. The weather was excellent too. The new limo cruised along the M40 smoothly, while Greg and Mycroft sat in the back holding hands. It was all going to be wonderful.

Late July. English summer. The combine harvesters in the fields, the landscape blotted with dry gold and the bloody flashes of poppies. They coasted through narrow lanes edged with flowering brambles and the last of the dog roses, under a lapis sky. Greg rolled down the window and let the hot breeze blast his face. Presently they turned off, between monumental gateposts, and crested a ridge. Below he could see parkland laid out, and a huge house of honey-coloured stone, its roofline crested with heroic Classical-style statues.

'Tea at a National Trust property on route?' Greg said, turning to his lover. 'You didn't say.'

Mycroft did not look at him. In a very purposeful way.

'Not National Trust?'

'No.'

'Are we visiting a friend of yours?'

'No.'

Greg looked out of the window as the limo trundled down the drive, gravel crunching under the wheels. Roses climbed up the mansion's magnificent portico. He suddenly found he wanted nothing more than to be a million miles away _right now_.

'Stop the car,' he shouted.

Mycroft looked startled.

Greg banged on the partition behind the driver. 'Stop the bloody car, I said!'

Before the limo had even come to a halt, he had opened the door and sprung out, staggering about in the long grass in circles, his head spinning. Every time he looked up, there was that bloody great house looking back at him, all manicured gardens and swagged windows, and what the fuck was he doing here?

'Fuck. Fuck.' He was mumbling. Puffing. Suddenly hyperventilating. 'Fuck.' He bent over, trying to breathe, hands on thighs, trying to think, trying for all the world to pull himself the fuck together.

Suddenly aware of Mycroft beside him, a long hand resting on his back, but he flinched away.

'What the-'

'Greg, please?'

'I mean, when were you fucking planning on telling me, eh?' he panted, dragging his hands through his silver hair, feeling how damp it had become. 'Come over for the weekend, Greg! I've got a little place in the country, Greg. Christ, Mycroft! What the fuck do you think you're doing? What the fuck am _I_ doing?'

'Greg, calm down.' Typical Mycroft. So calm and collected. He'd be Zen-like if his arse was on fire!

'Calm down? Calm down? Do you even have the first clue what is going on here? I'm from bloody _Chingford_, for God's sake! I was a punk! God Save the Queen and all that? Remember?'

Something snapped inside Mycroft then; Greg virtually heard it, a crack inside the taller man that seemed to echo across the golden hill.

'For fuck's sake, get a grip, Greg! It's just a house!'

'It's not just a house, you idiot! It's a fucking stately home! It's a whole bloody class system inside four walls! How did you expect me to react? I feel like Eliza bloody Doolittle!'

They stared at each other.

Greg shook his head. 'I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know why I ever agreed to this. I don't know what you are doing with me.'

Mycroft recoiled.

'You are here because you are the only clean, decent thing in my life,' he screamed.

Then they both stood there, shaking, taken aback by what had just happened between them. Mycroft seemed to collect himself slightly, but when Greg looked into his eyes as he spoke, he saw a different man to the one he knew.

'You have no idea, no idea at all what my life is like! I have done things, terrible things, things a decent man like you would abhor. A decent man should have locked me in prison and thrown away the key years ago, but because I do it for my country they say it's acceptable. But it isn't, Greg and it never will be. Every day I make decisions. I decide who will live and who will die, who will suffer so that the majority of decent, honest people can live in peace and ignorance, and I do it for them, because if they knew half of what goes on in this filthy world of ours, they'd never dare leave the house. I lie and I kill and I steal and I cheat every day to preserve that ignorance, and I've been doing it for so long I hardly know who I am. I'm a man of shadows, Greg. There is nothing decent or honest or truthful about me except my love for you. You are the only clean thing in my life, do you hear?'

He flailed his long arm about in the direction of the Stately Home.

'That? You know what built that? The money for that house came from the slave trade, from buying and selling and torturing and killing innocent people because of the colour of their skin. And after that, the money to keep it going? Exploiting men and women and children in factories and foundries and mills and pits, first in this country, and then all over the world. Ordinary people, maybe your ancestors, paid with their lives so that my ancestors could live in this luxury. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?

'You think you've gone up in the world, but let me tell you, you've walked into a sewer more cut-throat than the worst third world favela. All the depravity, all the cruelty, all the deceit you could ever imagine, and more besides, is soaked into those walls. So if you don't want it Greg, just say the word and it's gone. I don't care. All I care about is you. My cousin can inherit the lot, title, estate, everything. I can walk out on it right now, and I'd do it for you because it means nothing to me. But you have to know. It's time you knew. This is what I come from. The _real_ criminal classes.

'I am Viscount of the Realm. I have £23 million in the bank, the house and estates here, the London flat, the house in Antigua, a villa in Cap Ferat and a small Scottish Island. But I'm worth less than the coins you have in your pocket. So just say the word, and it's gone.'

There was defiance in his eyes, but also fear and pain. He set his jaw back, and straightened his neck, and became again the man Greg knew. For a moment, the policeman wondered if his lover was actually two men, the one urbane and restrained, who dined with Presidents and paladins the world over, the peer of the realm and the exceptional politician; the other a man of passion and ruthlessness, who could kill easily to protect those he loved (Greg had seen that in the stairwell in the City only a few days earlier), who despised his background and his ancestry, whose sensitive, turbulent nature had led him to a life of ethical struggle, and yet who had to be hidden and repressed to allow the other Mycroft to operate. It was a paradox being lived out in that Saville Row-clad frame, and it was tearing Mycroft apart. He had never appreciated just how truly damaged Mycroft was. Now he had seen a glimpse of it, the rubble beneath that composed exterior, and it shook him. For a few minutes he could not move. He looked at Mycroft. The Viscount was shaking, his eyes sharp and glittering with emotion, the throbbing pulse visible in the column of his throat.

Greg saw for the first time the truth. Here was a man mired in shadows who longed for light. And whatever Greg thought of himself, Mycroft saw him as the light. Reflected in his Viscount's eyes, he saw himself as a rescuing angel. And what man can resist such an image of himself?

He reached out and took Mycroft gently in his arms, and held him there. For several minutes the taller man was stiff with fear, unsure and unstable. He held himself upright in order to hold himself together. But Greg had learnt a great deal from watching the way John managed Sherlock's instability, and he followed that fine example. He stayed quiet. He regulated his breathing. He was simply there. And eventually, Mycroft's body did what his mind could not. It softened. With a faint expiration, he loosened against Greg, and his head came to rest on his shoulder, and they stood together in a tender and silent communion while a sky lark trilled overhead and bees buzzed lazily in the clover at their feet.

* * *

_Tomorrow, the Viscount and the butter dish…_


	30. Chapter 30

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 30**

_A/N: Good grief, I can't believe we've got to thirty chapters! There is sooo much of this, I don't know what the hell I am doing. But anyway, yesterday seemed to go down very well. Sorry to CuriousAccident for interrupting the reading of 'Socialist Worker' :-) hehehe, that really made me laugh. It wasn't actually a rant, just stating the truth about the foundations of the wealth of the British Empire: slaves, sugar, opium and exploitation. Same as pretty much any empire really._

_Today's chunk is a whopper. I was going to cut it in half, but I decided it didn't really have a natural pause where I could do that, and also I was having too much fun. In case you are wondering, I used the drawing room at Hinton Amptner, a National Trust property, for the model. I'll try and find a photo to put up on tumbr and LJ for you._

_Warning: contains men going at it. And butter. Don't say I didn't warn you._

* * *

They walked down the hill, hand in hand, grass seed heads whipping at their legs. Behind the house, a lawn mower hummed, the lazy sound of an English summer afternoon.

'I feel like those blokes in that Bond film. You know, er, what were they called?'

'No idea.'

'The gay assassins. Mr Wynt and Mr Kidd, wasn't that it?'

'It sounds like a vicious slur on the gay community.'

'What else do you expect from Bond?'

Mycroft laughed. 'And you wonder why I don't watch the things!'

'So do I get to meet your mother then?'

'Dear God, no,' Mycroft said. 'Wouldn't subject you to that! We're supposed to be here for a rest, aren't we? Besides, one shock at a time. With any luck, we can keep her at bay till after the ceremony.'

'But she lives here, doesn't she?'

'Only until we're married. After that, I shall pack her off to the Dower House, and we can come and go as we please.'

'Don't you think that's a bit cruel?'

'You haven't met Mummy.'

'So where is she?'

'Gone to visit friends in Cheltenham. So we've got the place to ourselves.' He squeezed Greg's hand affectionately.

Greg walked silently beside him for a little while, and then said, 'Did you really say £23 million?'

* * *

It was a beautiful drawing room, full of primrose yellow silk and French ormolu, a triumph of taste and luxury. Greg felt about as at home as a frog in a frying pan.

Mycroft was on the phone, snapping at Anthea.

'Yes, well I really don't care. I'm _trying_ to delegate…. Yes, my dear, I looked it up….No. Not unless there is a dire emergency…..Dire, I said…. Well, somebody assassinating the Queen, or nuclear warheads dropping on Westminster, I'd say that was pretty dire, wouldn't you?... Because you are perfectly capable…. Yes, you are… I know I said that before, but… You're going to make me say it, aren't you?...'

He was standing with one hand on his hip as he spoke, gazing out at the verdant view. The south wall of the room was punctured with French windows that opened onto the terrace. Mycroft's body was silhouetted against the sunny afternoon. Greg always forgot until moments like this just how physically beautiful Mycroft was. He had a long waist, broad shoulders and an elegant neck. His chinos were cut high, emphasising not only his long body but his magnificent behind and muscular flanks. Greg's cock twitched in his trousers. His mouth started watering.

Mycroft glanced behind him as the mountainous butler trooped in with a vast tray of tea things, followed by a black-and-white dressed maid who carried a plate with a Victoria Sandwich on it in one hand, and a four-tiered cake stand loaded with sandwiches, currant scones and fairy cakes in the other. The banquet was carefully arranged on the round table by the couch. Amongst the highlights, there was a silver tea set, fine bone china cups and saucers, and crystal bowls of jam and clotted cream to go with the scones. There was a butter dish of delicate pressed glass, with a slab of creamy butter sweating under the lid, straight from the fridge, perfect in this heat.

'Yes, I'm sure you are… Tomorrow, yes… No, not till later, I expect we'll have a lie-in… Thank you.' Mycroft ran his eye over his fiancé, assessed his condition and raised a clever eyebrow. He pressed the button his phone to end the conversation and turned smartly to Fingers.

'Thank you, Fingers. We shan't need you again this afternoon. You'll see that we aren't disturbed?'

'Of course, sir. What time would you like to dress for dinner?'

'Oh, no dressing tonight, very informal. We'll have it in the blue dining room at seven, please.'

'Yes, sir. Have a pleasant afternoon.'

'Thank you.'

Lestrade nodded to the huge man as he followed the maid out and closed the door discreetly behind himself.

'What was all that about?' he asked, turning to Mycroft.

The Viscount was busy dabbling a spoon in the teapot. 'It's Earl Grey. Do you like Earl Grey?'

'Myc?'

'You were ogling me.' He fitted the lid back on the pot.

'No, I wasn't.'

'You were.' He poured tea into each cup expertly. 'What's on your mind?' He raised his eyes and gave Greg an outrageously lustful look.

Greg couldn't help but smirk.

'Well, er, I was wondering about this carpet, actually,' he said, toeing it with his shoe.

'Aubusson, early nineteenth century, one of Mummy's treasures.'

'Hmmm? Oh. Does it stain?'

Mycroft grinned so wickedly that Greg nearly fell over his feet. 'I usually find that if one leaves things to dry, they brush off quite happily in the morning.'

We're on the same page then, Greg thought. The deep pile rug in the penthouse had taken quite a beating since Greg had moved in. He figured maybe it was time to move up in the world, and a genuine Aubusson rug might be a good step forward. He sauntered towards Mycroft, swinging his hips just enough to make his condition blindingly obvious. It's amazing what a little swagger can do for showing off a hard-on. He stood next to his lover at the table and toyed with the lid of the butter dish.

'Do you think it would be impossible to get a butter stain out?'

Mycroft cleared his throat. More than the heat in the room was getting to him. His porcelain cheeks were becoming a little flushed.

'I genuinely have no idea, but certain substances could be _licked_ up, I suppose.'

'Maybe we should do a comparison test,' Greg suggested.

'I thought you'd never ask.'

Mycroft fell on him like a starving man, forcing his tongue so far down Greg's throat he feared he might gag. Their hands were all over each other, dragging at buttons, clawing at nipples.

Greg pulled back, panting. 'Does the door lock?'

'No need. I told the servants to stay away, didn't I?

Greg wasn't buying that one. 'Yeah, but you forget, I come from the working classes, and I'm a copper. I guarantee there will be beady eyes at that keyhole if you don't stuff it with something.'

'There's only one thing going to be stuffed round here,' Mycroft said with a lewd expression.

Greg ran his hand down over Mycroft's ample bum and massaged the crevice in between his buttocks, making him moan with anticipation.

'Go and slide a key into that lovely tight lock, baby,' he breathed.

Mycroft was gone like a shot. He opened a drawer in a Chinese lacquered cabinet and pulled out a long key. Then he stalked over to the door and slipped it into the keyhole. He looked up at Greg as he turned it slowly, suggestively.

'There. Happy now?'

'Not till you're naked on the carpet.'

It was amazing just how quickly Mycroft Holmes could strip. Greg never failed to be impressed. At one point he had considered timing him, but that would have distracted him from the sheer magnificence of seeing that incredible body revealed, and he couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes away long enough to so much as glance at his watch.

In what seemed like seconds, Mycroft was naked and kneeling at his feet in the middle of the Aubusson. He looked up at Greg through his eyelashes and pouted.

'I'm hungry.'

A thrill ran down the inspector's spine and straight to the base of his cock.

'Fancy something to chew on?'

Mycroft didn't bother to reply. He just deftly unzipped Greg's fly and pulled out his cock. And wolfed it.

Greg moaned. Within seconds he was teetering on the edge, and he had to pull himself out of Mycroft's sublime mouth in desperation.

'You keep doing that so well, and we'll never get anywhere,' he panted.

Mycroft licked him as if he was a lollipop, right up the underside of his shaft.

Greg wasn't having any of _that_. 'Now, come on, get down on that rug, and let's get to work. _My Lord_.'

Reluctantly, the elder Holmes turned around and settled himself on shins and forearms, presenting his beautiful arse for Greg's enjoyment.

'Oh, fuck, Myc, you are incredible,' Greg moaned as he slid his palm over his lover's muscles.

'Fuck me,' he groaned back, arching his back up and forcing his backside out against Greg's hand.

Greg licked the tips of his fingers and slid them over Mycroft's crack, pressing the cheeks apart with his free hand, and began to massage the tight little pucker of his hole. When he felt the hard nub soften a little, he pressed both cheeks apart and buried his face between to lick and poke with his tongue. Mycroft started panting deliciously.

He'd never liked doing this to anybody else. It had never attracted or excited him as an activity in itself. It was Mycroft, he had realised some time ago. He tasted so sweet down there. He made Greg's mouth water so that he couldn't get enough. Or perhaps it was also that Mycroft so clearly loved it, wanted it so much that it made him moan and keen and buck back against Greg's questing tongue. Greg liked to probe and tickle. He liked the feel of the silken skin inside, and the tightness of the sphincter around the girth of his tongue. Most of all, he liked the slick looseness of Mycroft's hole after he'd done it, the way it welcomed his cock so hungrily.

But that was putting the cart before the horse, he realised, holding himself back. There was an experiment to be undertaken, a fantasy to be realised.

He put his index finger into his mouth and made sure it was thoroughly wet, then gently eased into Mycroft's arse. The spy moaned.

'Good?'

'Oh, God, Greg, do you even have to ask?'

'You're so beautifully tight. I have to open you up slowly.'

'No, more, please?'

'Oh, no, babe, not yet, take it slow, make it last. You don't stain a thousand pound rug without making it a memorable occasion.'

Mycroft ground his teeth. 'More like fifty thousand pounds,' he rasped.

Greg decided he would put that particular thought out of his mind for the moment. The last thing he wanted in his head right now was the idea of Mycroft's Valkyrie mother sending him the bill for cleaning a fifty thousand pound carpet. To get his own back, and get his lover's mind back on track, he curled his finger and hit Mycroft's prostate. The Viscount squealed and jerked.

'In that case,' Greg whispered in his ear, leaning forward over his body and brushing his cock against his backside, 'best make it doubly memorable.'

Mycroft whimpered.

Greg withdrew his hand, spat on his fingers, and eased two in.

Mycroft gave him a growl of approval.

Greg started working them in and out, twisting and scissoring. He could feel the muscles relaxing perfectly. Just to keep things moving along, though, he slid his other hand between Mycroft's legs and stroked his cock a little, if only because he liked the feel of its weight, dangling there.

A third finger sealed the deal. Mycroft was backing into his hand eagerly and grunting for more. No time like the present, he thought, and got up.

He'd always wanted to do this, ever since he'd heard the gossip about _that_ film. He went over to the table, and lifted the lid off the butter dish. The heat had softened it a little, but it was still dewed with condensation, firm and waxy when he slid the knife into it. He cut himself a long piece, about the size and length of his own finger. Perfect. He returned to his lover, still crouched on the pastel rug and trembling with anticipation.

'You ready for this?'

'Oh, yes, do it.'

Greg's hands were super-heated with lust, so handling the butter was difficult. It kept slithering between his fingers, but he was resolute. He eased an index finger into Mycroft's body and pressed down, opening the hole enough to slide the stick of butter in so that it could melt.

'God, it feels so goooood,' Mycroft moaned. Melted butter was already beginning to ooze, even as Greg slipped his finger out. He rubbed the oily residue gently around the pucker, then licked his finger.

'Mmmm, tastes fantastic. Is it cool inside?'

'Yes, I can feel it.'

Greg took Mycroft's prick in his hand to amuse them while they waited for everything to melt, Mycroft included, if his hardness was anything to go by. He gasped at Greg's touch. Greg milked him a little, then tugged on his balls to hold him back.

'Oh, God, I want you to fuck me,' Mycroft moaned. 'Why won't you fuck me?'

'All in good time, babe,' Greg reassured him. He fingered the hole a little. It was nice and greasy. 'I think we may be there.'

'Fuck me, for God's sake!'

'Now, now, my Lord, patience!'

'I don't have to have patience, I can invoke Droit de Signeur, then you _have_ to fuck me!'

Greg shuffled on his knees till he was behind his lover, consoling himself that at least these carpet burns would be expensive carpet burns.

'Actually, I think Droit de Signeur works the other way around,' he said, pressing the head of his cock against the greasy hole. 'You'd have the right to fuck me.'

'If you don't hurry up, I bloody well wi-'

Greg cut his words off abruptly as he breeched Mycroft's body, sliding in with one smooth motion. Warm, oily streams leaked down the backs of the Viscount's legs, and he hissed with relief.

'Yessssssss.'

Greg bent one knee at a right angle and planted his foot firmly on the rug by Mycroft's knee, to create a more stable base. He took his lover hard and swift, spasms of frantic thrusting, interspersed with long, slow strokes, pulling almost out so that the head of his cock stretched Mycroft's sensitive sphincters, packed with nerve-endings, and he moaned lavishly. Greg delved, forcing himself in deeper than he'd ever dared before, undulating his hips to vary the pressure on his love's insides. And then went back to the frenzied pumping.

Mycroft wailed as if Heaven had been made manifest on Earth.

Greg grabbed onto a handful of each buttock and let himself go, thrashing for all he was worth, and then taking it painfully slow, slowing both of them down in the process. He was determined to make this last. It was just too good.

The butter was amazing. It made everything slick and smooth.

'Oh, God, you feel so good,' he groaned.

Then, glancing up, he realised that the mirror over the fireplace, an ornate ormalu giant, was set at a slight angle so that he could see himself fucking Mycroft in the reflection, almost a birds-eye view. He could see Mycroft's muscular body, pale and rippling, writhing under his hands. He could see the ghost of his own cock as it disappeared over and over again into the butter-glazed, marble globes of Mycroft's arse. And he could see the purple head of Mycroft's cock as it bobbed beneath him. Fascinated, he watched as the shaft momentarily straightened, stiffening, and felt the explosion of convulsions as his lover came, spurting white fluid all over the expensive carpet. Mycroft's insides rippled, massaging Greg's own cock, but the reflection of him fucking the man he loved was what finally blew his mind and body at the same time.

He flung himself down, curling his body over Mycroft's, one arm over his shoulder, the other under his arm, hanging onto his chest and kissing the back of his neck as he came, thrusting hard, deep and desperate.

They both cried out, Mycroft emitting a noise at once feral and primal, a wordless wail of ecstasy. His legs and arms gave out and they both crashed into the wool pile, still writhing with pleasure.

It was some minutes before Greg managed to extricate himself from the tangle of sweaty limbs, easing out of Mycroft's body with a wretched moan, not wanting to separate. He flopped onto his back and lay still, trying to get his breath back and staring up at the crystal chandelier overhead as it twinkled in the sunlight. A soft breeze through the French windows made the glittering drops chime. That was when it occurred to him that locking the door had been a completely pointless exercise, since anyone could walk along the terrace and look in. Except that no one would, because this was a private house and no one would have the access or the excuse. It was all ridiculous, unbelievable. Especially when he turned his head and looked at Mycroft. Blue eyes blinked back at him. He was still lying on his front, cheek against the rug, a sheen of perspiration over his strange features. He was not a classically handsome man by any means, Greg realised, and that nose was really a crime against human beauty, but he was the most gorgeous creature Greg had ever laid eyes on, and that was a certifiable fact.

'God, I love you,' he breathed.

Mycroft smiled, the smile of the sexually satisfied. He reached out and stroked a weak finger along Greg's jaw.

'I'm leaking,' he whispered.

'Oh.' Greg had just the solution. He grinned. 'Second round?'

He got up onto trembling hands and knees and crawled over his love's prone body until he got to his bum. He pulled the cheeks apart and there was a glistening cascade of melted butter and come.

'Yum,' he whispered, and began to lick.

* * *

_Tomorrow, Greg and Mycroft take the plunge..._


	31. Chapter 31

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 31**

_A/N: Thank as always to everyone who comments. You are a goldmine._

_I want belatedly to dedicate Chapter 30's smut to my dear friend **Witch Nova** whose birthday celebrations yesterday were destroyed by the appalling state of the British transport system. I hope you have a happier result for your Sherlockian Birthday Bash, darling._

_Anyway, having raised your pulses, I'm now going to make your hearts squirm. We've had one wedding, an exhumation and two explosions, and we are almost done with this Part (only five more chapters to go), so now for the next wedding..._

* * *

Was it possible for a man to look radiant, John wondered. If it was, then, Mycroft definitely did. He glowed as he walked down the aisle between the serried ranks of gold painted chairs in the magnificent Saloon of Sandon House, his newly acquired husband on his arm.

Greg looked very slightly stunned. He had a dazed grin on his face.

It had been a beautiful ceremony, despite the arrival of Lady Holmes dressed in black, with a thick gauze veil of mourning over her face. Sherlock had actually giggled.

'Now I know where you get your sense of the dramatic,' John had hissed at him.

A harpist played the happy couple in and out. Greg's kids were both involved; Emily, the elder, acted as flower girl, strewing rose petals before her father and his new husband, and the younger, Matthew, looking slightly swamped by his new suit, being ring bearer - two platinum bands, each engraved with the double loop of the 'infinity' symbol. Anthea, in a spectacular Phillip Treacy hat, dabbed at her ebony eyes. Baxter looked, for once, as if his golden smile was forced.

'I don't know what I did to deserve having _two_ sons turn out bent,' Lady Holmes spat under her breath.

Sherlock, standing next to her, hissed back, 'You treated them like shit and put them off women for life, that's what.'

She did not look at him. Throughout the ceremony she kept her eyes on her elder son, and after he had processed out, she swept down the aisle and was gone. She was not seen again at the proceedings. John couldn't have even said what she actually looked like, her veil was so thick, and her presence so brief.

* * *

Champagne was served on the terrace in the late August sun. Tables were laid out in the Orangery, decked with delicate white damask cloths, white roses, and napkins twisted into complicated flowers. The crystal glittered. The warm air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and orange blossom. Emily, just turned fourteen and luminous with pleasure, might as well have been the bride with all the attention she got, seated at the top table next to her proud father. No, John thought, make that 'fathers', plural. Mycroft watched her adoringly. And Mattie, who spent a long time talking to Baxter about electronics, and to Sherlock about the more lurid crimes he had solved. John thought it probable that Lestrade junior would follow in his father's footsteps. With two such parents, he was going to get a flying start.

The sweet had just arrived when John became aware of something he had never anticipated. A long, familiar hand sliding up his thigh and stroking gently against his crotch.

He managed to glance sideways at Sherlock, who was beside him, talking animatedly to his cousin Estella about some aspect of family history. John was not sure what. He generally switched off when such matters came up with a lover's family, because there were always dozens of names that meant nothing to him, and that he would probably never hear again. Except with Sherlock's family, he expected to be hearing them at big gatherings for the rest of his life, but that was beside the point. What _was_ the point, was that Sherlock was palming John's growing erection in public at his brother's wedding reception. While having a perfectly innocent conversation with a relative. And not even showing a twitch of anything but innocence on his face.

John was getting very hard. He had to shift in his seat to ensure he didn't cut off the circulation to his leg. He froze when Sherlock's long fingers insinuated themselves all the more firmly around his cock, his spoon and fork hovering above his dish as he looked down at the elegantly arranged morsels of his strawberry pithivier dessert. He cleared his throat lightly, in the hope of attracting Sherlock's attention to the fact that, while very pleasurable, his caress was not entirely appropriate at this juncture.

Sherlock seemed oblivious.

John tried to concentrate on his berries.

The thought occurred to him that this was an excellent development. Sherlock really had changed since he fell. He was asserting himself sexually in no uncertain terms. He was asking for what he wanted, taking what he needed, responding to his own desires. If that included stroking John off during a wedding reception, then he supposed he shouldn't really complain. The old Sherlock would never have done this.

But that was the point.

The thing that had been niggling away at John since that night in the shower at Mycroft's flat now showed its face. And its face said:

What has changed him?

And then he realised.

Sherlock had been with someone else.

John realised he was standing up, and people were looking at him. He still had his spoon and fork in his hands. He put them down, swept his napkin onto the table and walked away. He heard Sherlock's voice behind him, calling his name, but it was as though through a long tunnel, distant. He didn't look back.

* * *

_Tomorrow, the fight and the truth…._


	32. Chapter 32

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 32**

_A/N: Thank you for your comments yesterday, your panic made me cackle maniacally! Today's episode includes mention of the beautiful blue cedar my mum has in her garden. She keeps threatening to have it cut down because the pine needles get trodden into the carpet. I think think that is the worst reason possible to cut down a century old tree, and I keep telling her not to. I love that tree. So this is dedicated to the cedar, taking its first cameo role. Long may it shed annoying needles._

* * *

'John? John, we're going to miss the speeches.'

He heard the voice behind him, but he didn't turn. He was standing under a tree, a vast cedar some distance from the house and its terrace garden. His hand rested against its bark. The surface was deeply scored, paper dry, ridged and flaky. He wondered if it was holding him up, this towering tree, or if it was the other way around. He wondered how many other lovers had learnt they had been betrayed under its spreading blue boughs.

Weddings, he thought. I hate fucking weddings.

'John?' The voice came again, this time with a hand gentle on his sleeve. Without even thinking what he was doing, he snatched his arm away.

He felt the change in Sherlock. They were too close now for him to miss it. The realisation.

'It wasn't what you think,' his lover said, and his voice had deepened, become serious and dark-toned.

'And what do I think, genius?'

'You think I did it for love. You think I betrayed you in my heart.'

'You lied to me, Sherlock! You said you'd never cheated on me, and you never would!'

Sherlock had the grace to be silent, to give John a moment to regain his equilibrium. He knew his lover was aware of this mood of his, how it could take him. The stillness that took hold, like a cobra waiting to strike. Sherlock would not provoke him. He knew what he was capable of. No, he would wait, and watch, and try to quietly explain.

'I needed her help. I thought that if I gave her what she wanted, she would be more inclined to make the extra effort.'

'You slept with a woman.'

'Yes.'

'So now you're telling me you can get it up for a woman in order to get what you want out of her, but you can't get it up for me?'

'I couldn't get it up, as you so delightfully put it,' Sherlock snarled. 'It was only oral sex.'

'Only? Only? Has it not occurred to you that what we do together is pretty much _only_ oral sex?' John turned around. He was aware of his fists clenching at his sides so hard that his nails were digging into his palms, cutting the flesh.

'I thought I'd never see you again!' Sherlock cried. John gaped at the spasm of pain that flashed across his face. 'I mean what did it matter? If there was no you to give it to, then my body was only transport! I didn't care what happened to it. I didn't care who did what with it, so long as I could just keep you safe. After that, nothing else mattered.'

The horror of what Sherlock was saying began finally to sink in, but he went on, relentless, apparently unable to stop now the dam had burst.

'I made her come. I took her to bed and made her come, but when she touched me, it made me sick. I was physically sick! Do you understand that? It was a disaster. After that, I was so ashamed. She was ashamed. We were both disgusted with ourselves. It didn't help. I'm appalled that I even thought it would. But like you said, I'm an idiot. It was wrong. It was the worst thing I could have done. I hate myself for it. And I'm sorry. Please, John, listen to me – I'm sorry.'

He reached out and tried to touch John again, tried to take his hand, but the soldier recoiled.

'I don't know what's worse,' he rasped. 'The fact that you used her sexually to get what you wanted, that you took something beautiful and sacred, and despoiled it, and don't even understand how wrong that was – or that you knew it was wrong, and you still lied to me about it afterwards. And you would have kept lying, wouldn't you, if I hadn't realised?'

Sherlock stared at him. His face had become pale, haggard. It had been over a month since his return, but he still had not recovered his bloom, though he had a little more flesh on his bones now. His eyes had bleached to a desperate silver, shot with flashes of starling's wing. Whatever he'd done, John knew he still loved him.

'Don't leave me, John,' he whispered.

'Yeah, like that's going to happen? Have you actually been present for the last nine months, Sherlock? Have you actually understood the fact that we can't do without each other?'

Sherlock stared at him, for once uncomprehending.

'Who was she?' John demanded.

'I can't tell you.'

'Tell me!'

'I can't.'

'Fuck you, Sherlock!'

John turned and began to stride away.

'John, please?' Sherlock sobbed after him.

'Go back to the party. I need to think!'

* * *

_Tomorrow, John tries to get his head together…_


	33. Chapter 33

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 33**

_A/N: Thank you as always for all your comments. I'm amazed that I have managed to whip you all into such a frenzy. Erm, in which case, I'm not sure this chapter is going to make things any better.  
_

_Meanwhile, Mirith - Great Trees in Literature Part 2: The great horse chestnut tree in 'Jane Eyre', and the beautiful tree with pig's teeth embedded in its bark in 'Howards End'. What is it with tree symbolism? We even do it (as with mine) without knowing we do!_

_So, erm, back to John's moral dilemma..._

* * *

The band was setting up in the ballroom. John looked in, hoping that he might be able to pass unnoticed through the throng, and slip away up to the bedroom they had been allocated for the night. At least there he could be sure of being alone. One look told him there was no escape that way. Even with the enormous amount of champagne that had been sunk, he couldn't get through without somebody stopping him, and he couldn't stomach making polite conversation just now, not with his head spinning and his gut churning.

He had broken out in a heavy sweat, and it wasn't the heat. It was pure rage. He wanted to curse and swear. He wanted to break things and throw things and punch things. He wanted to hurt someone. Partly, he wanted to hurt himself. Partly, he wanted to hurt Sherlock. Mainly, he wanted to hurt anyone who was happy when he was not. Conflict curdled inside him. Fury that Sherlock had lied to him, that he had cheated on him. Pain that he had really assumed they would never see each other again, that he valued himself so little. He could see the argument Sherlock must have had with himself. At the time, it must have made sense. But afterwards? There was no excuse for lying, no excuse for stubbornly keeping the truth from John, even as he worked it out for himself. Pacing up and down on the parterre, clawing at his hair wretchedly, he tried to decide whether, had he been in Sherlock's situation, with no prospect of reunion, he might have done the same thing.

'John?'

The voice came from behind him. It was a stupid thing to do to creep up on a decorated war veteran when he was having a meltdown. Before he knew what he was doing, he had pinned the other guest up against the garden wall by the throat.

Then he realised it was Tim Baxter.

He was impossibly tall and golden in the afternoon sun. His eyes shone a deep cornflower blue as John panted his rage out, fists tight around the taller man's neck.

'John?' Baxter croaked. His hands found John's waist, and pressed there, but it was not clear whether he meant to exert force to extricate himself, or whether his lingering touch was born of desire.

John let go, shocked at himself, but Baxter didn't. Minds slightly skewed with champagne, they were pressed up against the brickwork together, struggling to find equilibrium and breath.

Something inside John snapped. If he wanted revenge on Sherlock, then this was exactly the right time to get it. He pushed Baxter back, lent up on his toes and mashed his mouth against the spook's. Baxter didn't hesitate. He let out an urgent moan and opened his lips, inviting John to probe deeper. Minutes passed as they wrestled for control, hands everywhere. Then Baxter rolled John and he found himself pressed to the wall, the towering, lithe body against him, mouth hungry, hands a flurry of need. John sank his fingers into the thick mat of Baxter's golden hair and held on tight, his body flooding with the heat of lust. Baxter thrust his hips in, and John felt the burgeoning column of his cock jab into his belly. He moaned. Baxter responded, sliding his hand down John's body, caressing his belly, then lower, to palm his cock through the fine wool of his trousers. God, it felt so good. John pushed back, feeling long fingers curl around the outline of his erection so deliciously, the man in his arms growling with want. So, so good.

And then suddenly it wasn't so good.

In fact, it was not good at all.

Because this wasn't Sherlock in his mouth, not Sherlock's smell in his nostrils, not the taste of Sherlock's tongue on his, not Sherlock's intelligent fingers knowing just how to turn him on. And suddenly it was wrong.

So wrong.

Panting, John pushed the golden Adonis off. Baxter was startled and confused, searching his face to understand how their encounter could turn bad so quickly.

'Oh, God, I'm sorry, I can't do this, I just can't,' John babbled.

And then he took to his heels and ran.

* * *

'The only person who is allowed to cry at my wedding is me,' Mycroft pointed out as he slid down onto the bench beside Sherlock. His younger brother was bent over, leaning elbows on knees, head down, sobbing. Mycroft rubbed his back tenderly.

'Come on, Lops, what's wrong?'

'He's gone.'

'John?'

A tortured nod.

'Don't worry, he'll come back.'

'When?' Sherlock cried, lifting his head. His eyes were red-raw, his beautiful lower lip trembling, his delicate skin blotched with tears. 'An hour? A day? A month? A year - when? And what about next time? How long will it take next time, Moff? Because you know there will be a next time – because I always mess up! And how many times will he come back before he just gives up like everyone else has? How many times can I risk messing it up before I lose him for good?'

Mycroft tousled his hair. 'You know he'll always come back.'

'No, no, I don't know that, I have no proof that he will. I messed up! I always mess up! Why do I always mess up? I don't deserve him, I don't deserve anything good!'

Mycroft swept his little brother into his arms and held him tightly while he wailed. There was nothing else to do when he was this distraught – he'd learnt that from bitter experience. It happened rarely, but when it did, you had to hold him and wait till he either calmed down or exhausted himself, which ever came first. Usually, it was a long wait.

'He loves you,' he murmured against Sherlock's ear. 'He's killed for you. He'd die for you. He pretty much died without you. He'd kill tigers with his bare hands for you, if you asked him to, you know that. You _know_ that.'

Sherlock's sobs began to soften to whimpers.

'We all mess up sometimes, Lops,' Mycroft went on. 'But somehow we get through it.'

Sherlock pulled back and looked sharply into his brother's eyes. Mycroft didn't like that look. He suddenly felt naked.

'Don't mess up again,' Sherlock sniffed. 'Baxter isn't worth losing Greg for.'

Mycroft didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew about his last minute jitters before the ceremony, about the frantic fumble on Baxter's desk the night before last, about the compulsion he still felt towards the glamorous blonde with the long legs, beautiful eyes, and the pliant and oh-so-willing mouth. He shouldn't have done it, and he had felt wretchedly ashamed and guilty afterwards. It had made his vows that afternoon all the more heartfelt.

'I promise I will never cheat on Greg again,' he whispered, holding his brother's gaze.

Sherlock nodded slowly. 'I won't tell,' he breathed.

'I know.'

They rested their foreheads together, finding a childhood intimacy that Mycroft had never thought that they would ever regain.

'John really does love you,' he told Sherlock. 'No matter how much you mess up.'

'I slept with someone else. And he's guessed.'

Mycroft nodded. 'Was it serious?'

'No. It was while I was away, and I thought I'd never see him again. It was necessary. Or at least I thought so at the time.'

'And you regret it now?'

'Of course.'

'And he knows you regret it?'

'Yes.'

'Then go and find him. One look at the state of you, and I guarantee he'll melt.'

Sherlock gave him a wan smile. 'Do you think so?'

'You should see yourself. All the appeal of a kicked puppy.' He gave Sherlock a smart slap on the backside. 'Go on, you stupid little bugger! And no more grizzling at my party!'

And he watched as his little brother limped wretchedly off into the gardens, a solitary black-clad figure amongst the roses in search of his beloved.

* * *

_Tomorrow, Sherlock finds John in the Walled Garden…_


	34. Chapter 34

**Three Weddings Part 1 **

**Chapter 34**

_A/N: I feel I should warn you that this part of Three Weddings (only!) has 36 chapters. We are getting close to the end. Er. There will be suspense. Don't shout at me, because I warned you, OK?_

_Thank you again for all your comments and positive support. I can't tell you how much it encourages me. There's a lot of work to do on Part 2, and I need to get down to my Victorian novel (coming to a Kindle near you soon, I hope - watch my tumblr account for more news), so I pray for patience from my wonderful readers while I wrestle with the action sequences and emotional pay-offs at the end of this vast work. I've got to 47,500 words so far (!) on this story, and I'm not even close to finishing, so there will be heaps more to come._

_Warning: significant making-up activities will ensue._

* * *

John was in the walled garden. He walked amongst the willow pyramids of runner beans and the delicate fronds of fennel, and tried to think. But it was a waste of time. He couldn't think of anything except Sherlock. Not Sherlock licking a faceless woman's cunt to get what he wanted, or Sherlock lying, but the Sherlock who slept every night in his arms, the lover who moaned his name when they lay naked together, the man who had grovelled under the table on dark nights, in terror of the past and his own shadow. And he longed for him. The yearning came up again from the depths of his heart, wrenching and soul-tearing, the same yearning that he had wrestled with in his grief, like Jacob with the angel. There was no hiding from it. Every word he'd said to the detective was true. There was no way they could live without each other.

Sherlock was stupid. He was wildly immature on an emotional level in spite of his intellectual brilliance, his development arrested in so many crucial ways by his rape at the age of eleven. He had not understood what he was doing when he took that woman to bed, John was at least sure of that. He only discovered the reality of it afterwards. Shame and self-loathing could easily destroy him. He was so fragile. So often, it was up to John to protect his lover from his own self. Like right now.

Instinct made him look up from the cheerful clump of chard he had been staring at, unseeing. He saw coming towards him through the fruit trees the singular figure that his heart recognised with its own joyful cry, black-clad and tousle-headed, and uniquely himself. Sherlock.

His Sherlock.

No doubt about that. If ever he had needed confirmation of that fact, he saw it now in his lover's blotched face and red-rimmed eyes as they fixed on him. Sherlock stopped, hovered, waiting for a sign that he was welcome. John felt his eyebrows lift fractionally. No one else would even have noticed such a subtle gesture, but Sherlock did. He scrambled through the potager like a man possessed, a blur of flailing black limbs, and then they met, bodies thumping together, arms about one another's necks, and nothing mattered but the pounding heart that beat against John's breast, and the sweet, warm scent of the skin of Sherlock's neck against his cheek.

John pulled away, filled with a new impetus. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and began to drag him. Sherlock tried to speak, but John silenced him with a glance. Not now, love, the look said. Later.

There was a potting shed, a door with two windows, one either side, built into the wall of the garden. It reminded John of the little plastic wendy house that Harry had been given as a child – so many hours they had spent playing in that tiny tent. This little shed was obviously built for the gardeners who tended the kitchen garden which fed the inhabitants of the big house. John tried the ancient Bakelite handle and found it unlocked.

Inside there was the usual paraphernalia required by gardeners. One wall had become a hanging rack, a parade of spades and forks whose wooden handles had been polished to a sheen by decades of meaty, soil-covered fingers, and lashings of linseed oil. There was a potting bench with shelves above it on the other side, and piles of terracotta plant pots and balls of twine. Everything smelt fusty and dusty, the pungency of dried soil and fertiliser.

John pulled Sherlock inside and locked the door. They stood opposite one another, holding hands, holding one another's gaze.

'You're mine,' John told Sherlock.

'Yes, John.' There was no need to say anything else.

John pulled Sherlock against him and kissed him, roughly.

'No one else gets to kiss you or touch you or hold you or caress you or stroke you or lick you or suck you, or anything else for that matter, do you understand?'

'Yes, John,' Sherlock moaned. John found his neck and bit down hard, marking him well above his collar where everyone could see whether they cared to look or not.

'And you don't kiss or touch or lick or suck or anything else with anybody but me, you understand?' He pushed off Sherlock's jacket. It fell in a black, silky pool at their feet. Somehow, that long body was manoeuvred against the potting bench, perched there on the edge, shirt hurriedly plucked off. Sherlock arched his spine, threw his head back, offered his chest and belly to John's questing lips.

'Only you, John, only ever you!' he panted.

John found hard nipples and cool, pale skin. He gripped Sherlock's sharp hips and thrust between the long thighs hungrily.

'Mine,' he growled.

The bench rocked. At John's feet, a terracotta pot fell off the bottom shelf and smashed.

Sherlock's left hand snaked round the back of John's neck, stroking the suntanned skin. His right slipped between their bodies, deftly tugged at John's trousers and released his tumescent cock, encircling it with tactile heat. It was John's turn to moan now.

'Yours,' Sherlock cried. 'Only yours!'

John was not sure how it had happened, but somehow they were all but naked, the only shred of clothing the shirt hanging open from John's shoulders, their loins sweaty as they pounded together, Sherlock panting and wailing his need in time with every thrust:

'Fuck me, take me, fuck me!'

John's shaft slid between Sherlock's buttocks, caressing his perineum and the back of his scrotum with its length as they ground together. Sherlock's thighs chafed against John's hips, tantalising. Their lips locked together, John's tongue fucking Sherlock's mouth, violent with passion.

John's head span. So many conflicting feelings spiralled inside him: the desire to make Sherlock hurt, and yet to protect him; to fuck him brutally, and yet to hold him tenderly too; to mark his luminous skin, and yet to marvel at his unblemished beauty. If John didn't know what he wanted, at least one thing floated high above all else.

He wanted Sherlock. Sherlock was everything. And Sherlock was his.

As they careered out of control, Sherlock wailed his need, and his soft cock spurted its little offering of juice against John's belly. The doctor lost it. Beyond all awareness of time or meaning, John's body flooded with love and desire, and he came wildly, roaring like a bull.

'Mine!'

Moments of dizziness passed. John became aware that Sherlock was holding him up with legs clamped firmly around his middle as well as strong arms around his ribs. He had fallen forward, collapsed against his lover's shoulder. Sherlock in turn was leaning back against the soil-strewn shelves, panting. John managed to lift his head.

'Oh, love,' he breathed.

Suddenly someone rattled the door handle.

'Piss off, we're shagging!' John shouted, and there was a murmur of muted aristocratic outrage on the other side before they heard footsteps lead away. They looked at one another and dissolved into giggles.

* * *

_Tomorrow, Mycroft and Greg's first dance, and an unexpected phonecall..._


	35. Chapter 35

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 35**

_A/N: Dear all, thank you as always for your marvellous comments. I am definitely addicted and its going to be hard after this is over not to have this constant conversation with you all. But I am also definitely aware that I need to have a creative break, to refill the wells, and to work on the novel. Three Weddings Part 2 will be along in good time, but right now I can't predict when that will be, soz (as a pal of mine says). In the meantime I expect to be publishing other experiments on AO3, livejournal and maybe tumblr, and perhaps even stuff in other fandoms from my archive, to keep you entertained._

_Oh, and to **Giraffes Sent Me**: chard as a much neglected vegetable in making up scenes. Epic. I laughed so loudly the neighbours banged on the shared wall! I shall now look at chard in a totally new way._

_And so, on with the penultimate chapter..._

* * *

They strode back into the ballroom, holding hands and aware that they must look conspicuously dishevelled. The band was just tuning up. John caught sight of Baxter, head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, glowing in his personal pool of golden light. He was beautiful, John thought. Truly beautiful. He just wasn't Sherlock. Baxter turned his head and their eyes met. John saw his appraising look, the brief glance at Sherlock, and then his eyes filled with a sad understanding, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Enough, John thought.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand, and his lover looked down at him, a fond glance, his ignorance of what had just transpired something that John would endeavour for the rest of his life to preserve. He understood now why Sherlock had lied to him about the woman he had slept with. He would never mention it, or hold it against him again.

Mycroft and Greg were making their way onto the dancefloor. The band was a thirty piece Big Band, from saxophones and trombones to a massive double base and a trio of singers. They struck up a jaunty version of Nat King Cole's 'Unforgettable', and the happy couple began to dance to resounding applause.

And Sherlock's phone rang in his trouser pocket.

He frowned as he took out the device. John realised he didn't recognise the number, but he answered it anyway.

* * *

'Hello, Sherlock'

Sherlock was suddenly alert, scanning the room to catch Baxter's eye.

'Moran.'

'Long time no hear, my friend. I'd have thought you'd have caught up with me by now.'

'I've had things to do.'

'Yes, very cute, your doctor, now he's come out of his shell a little.'

'What do you want, Moran? I'm busy.'

'Pretty little ceremony that.' Sherlock's stomach turned to ice.

Baxter was coming towards him, pushing through the guests who were crowding around the dance floor. Mycroft and Greg were skimming across the floor under the glittering lights, their eyes glued on one another.

'Get to the point,' Sherlock barked down the phone. John was standing in front of him, his face a rictus of horror.

'I've left you a little present,' Moran said, his voice crackling down the line. 'Surprising how easy it is to get past Mycroft's goon squad. When you have inside help, that is. Anyway, I thought you'd appreciate a little game of 'Find the Booby Trap'. Might put some lead in your pencil, so to speak. Get your mind back on the job at hand.'

'And the job at hand is catching you, I suppose?'

'Oh, I want _all_ your attention, Sherlock Holmes. And the Government's too. We're at war, remember?'

'This is a big house. You have to give me a clue,' Sherlock said, trying to keep Moran on the line.

'Oh, I would never presume to give the Great Sherlock Holmes _a clue_,' Moran laughed. 'But I will give you a time limit. You've got fifteen minutes from now. And then I'll blow it remotely. Have fun!'

The line went dead.

Sherlock's hand slowly sank to his side, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone.

'What's wrong?' Baxter was suddenly beside him.

'There's a bomb,' Sherlock said, turning to him. 'Moran's planted a booby trap somewhere in the house –'

'He can't have! This place has been crawling with our people for days-'

'It's an inside job,' Sherlock said. 'One of your people is helping him.'

'Christ!' John gasped.

Baxter pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket and lifted it to his curved lips. 'Code red, code red, bomb alert. Escort principals from the building.'

'Not in a car,' Sherlock snapped. 'He'll have covered those. Get them out on foot. Where's Fingers?'

'The butler?' John was scanning the crowd. 'Over there.'

Black-clad sentinels were appearing on the rim of the room. Sherlock beckoned to Fingers who had already cottoned on to trouble and was making his way over.

'You can't send them with _him_,' Baxter protested.

'Right now, he's the only man in this room I'd trust with the job, and that includes you,' Sherlock snarled back.

The main lights flickered on. Everyone looked around them, dazed. John saw the expression on Mycroft's face change in an instant. He had switched to professional mode. Greg had blanched.

'The kids,' he was saying. 'Where are the kids?'

Sherlock grasped Fingers' sleeve as he reached them. 'Take them out across the gardens and through the copse, you know the way. There should be a bus from the village at half past. Get them as far away from here as you can.'

Fingers nodded, wordless, and went to herd the new husbands out through the French windows. John saw Emily grabbing Mattie's hand close by, and he shoed them towards their father.

'Go, quickly, go!'

Emily's eyes blazed with fear as she tugged her brother through the milling guests and into Lestrade's arms. For a moment, Mycroft looked up, and John saw him meet his brother's eye. And then they were gone.

Baxter was barking into the walkie-talkie, co-ordinating the evacuation of the rest of the guests in the opposite direction. Anthea appeared, having shed her Phillip Treacy hat and her relaxed manner.

'Where the hell will he have put it?' Sherlock growled to himself, digging his fingertips into his temples viciously. His head was blurred with the jumbled emotions of the day, with exhaustion and sex. He couldn' think straight. 'Where? Where?'

'You've got to think like a terrorist,' John told him.

'I know!'

'Under the stage,' Anthea said, looking up at the band, who were beginning to decamp under the direction of several security operatives.

'Too obvious,' Sherlock told her, disdainfully. 'And any shake could blow the thing before the perfect moment. No, he'd do better than that.'

'He's not very subtle, though,' John pointed out. 'He's not Moriarty.'

'The Orangery?' Anthea suggested.

'Too late. Why blow it now, when he could have done it when we were all eating in there?'

Sherlock paced up and down as the last of the other guests were shepherded out

'Think, think, think!' He groaned, screwing up his eyes.

'I know where I'd put it, if I was him,' John said.

Anthea and Sherlock both looked at him.

'What would be a better publicity coup than to blow up the wedding car of a senior government official just as he was leaving for his honeymoon?'

'The Aston!' Sherlock gasped. He cupped John's face in his hands. 'Some of my genius is finally rubbing off on you!'

* * *

_Tomorrow, the bomb…._


	36. Chapter 36

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 36**

_A/N: OK, I've folded. I can't leave it. I have to give you one more comfort chapter. Because I'm not a Blue Meanie. So you get another one tomorrow morning. But that's positively the last, ok? _

_At least until I get the next 47,000 words done!_

* * *

They had decorated it that morning, well before the ceremony. It was parked in the cobbled courtyard of the stable block. There were empty tin cans and foil balloons attached with string to the rear bumper, along with quite a few lengths of toilet roll. Anthea had contributed one of her own lipsticks (a rather nice YSL one, Sherlock had been impressed to note) so that they could write 'Just Married' on the rear window, the boot and the side door panels. The waxy pink looked excellent against the steel blue of the paintwork.

'How long have we got left?'

They were peering at the car from behind the wall of the stable block, a line of black-clad men in kevlar vests and helmets standing hunched against the golden sandstone behind them. Baxter checked his watch.

'I reckon about three minutes,' he said. Even the furrow in his brow was elegant, John noticed.

'We haven't got any bomb squad on site?' Sherlock asked him.

He shook his golden head. 'The dogs were supposed to have cleared the place this morning. Jesus, this is a mess!'

'We'll have to wait for Moran to blow it then,' Sherlock said quietly, his voice full of tension. 'Besides, if he has remote control, he'll be watching and the minute anyone gets close to him, he'll detonate it.'

'He's sitting out there watching us?' John asked.

'Undoubtedly so, yes.'

'Fucking cold-hearted bastard,' John growled under his breath.

And then it blew.

There is nothing quite like the explosion of an Aston Martin in the gathering twilight of a warm summer's evening. The gust of heat and the blast wave. The brilliant white and yellow of the flames. The rattle of hot metal on the cobbles. The intense burst of roaring sound.

A single front wing panel tumbled back down through the blue sky and clattered on the stones like a comic motif.

John was deaf for a few moments, back in time for a few moments more, his blood freezing in his veins. He wrestled with the memory of the piercing agony in his shoulder as he went down with a sniper's bullet amidst an IED-triggered ambush. Then Sherlock's fingers were clenching around his, calling back into the present, and he looked into the tender pewter of his lover's eyes.

After a second or two they cautiously inched out from behind the wall, now peppered with shrapnel holes.

And that was when the second blast went off.

* * *

Emily's shoes had high heels. Dad had insisted she take them off, but it wasn't easy to walk through the open pasture land on the edges of the formal gardens barefoot, at least at any speed. Mycroft had huffed, and to her amazement, swept her up into his arms and carried her. She felt like a Disney princess.

Dad had given Mattie a piggy back.

They made much faster progress that way.

They had just reached the brow of the hill when she heard the first bang. Mycroft put her down, and they all turned back, looking down the long slope up which they had walked to where the house nestled in the valley. She saw a gout of flame shoot up from some outbuildings at the back, heard herself gasp.

Mycroft squeezed her shoulders, pulling her against him a little, and she wondered whether he knew he was doing it. He smelt sharply of aftershave and wine, and another, very male smell which she had always thought that only her dad smelt of. Man-smell, she had named it. She looked up at him, tall as he was, saw the freckled underside of his chin, soft and vulnerable, saw his adam's apple bob.

'Was that-' her dad started.

'The stables,' Mycroft answered. 'Must have been the car.'

'We should get on, sir,' the huge man they had been told to follow said.

'Yes,' said Mycroft, turning to her. 'Come on, little lady.' And he went to pick her up again.

Then the second explosion happened. It was much bigger. Emily felt the rush of the blast even at the top of the hill. They turned back again, just in time to see the huge column of smoke and dust rising from the house itself. She saw one side of it shudder and collapse.

She put her hand over her mouth in horror, and felt her new step-father start against her, the shock running through his body and into hers.

'Mummy,' he whispered, and his eyes were wide with pain.

* * *

_DON'T MISS TOMORROW'S BONUS CHAPTER!_

**APPLAUSE:**

This story could not have been produced without the continuous support of several thousand readers, to whom deepest thanks are offered. Particular thanks and applause for all the feedback go to the dogged commenters who have stuck with me throughout, and who are listed below. You are all amazing:

**On ff**: (in no particular order) **power0girl, **, the divine **Mirith Griffin **who made this incarnation for me, by comparing me to Tolkien**, Ju Lara**, **Telula13, Giraffes Sent Me** who never fails to make me laugh, **xelectrogirlx, Kida**, ** , anna, Bookwoman17NerdyMom, PenelopeWaits, DamienNOLA**, **CuriousAccident, aranel2712, librarianmum, Witch Nova** and **WitchRavenFox** who are my "Sanity Team", **Kerttu, otala, TellMeMore90, bruderlein, Fanficaddict, NinjaBearClaw**, **Lover of Emotions, hanging in there, ShillyTheEpicNinja, GabrielsDoubt, Corey5268, This Modified Queen, NATWEST, zoelou77, Jisa, originallycrazy, MandarineKida, bookloverforeverandever, lalunaffour, Jess Stark-Lover of Downey Jr, blueeyesmilby, Glowingbluebell, Soapiefan, bowties-and-baskerville, NerdasaurusRex, chaynah1**, **aindarayshin** and if I've missed anyone out, I can only apologise and say thank you in general. You are all exemplary and _Most Blessed_. I don't know how I'm going to do without you.

**On Livejournal**: the indefatigable **rox712 **who seemed to find time to comment every day without fail – RESPECT -, **gellmar64**, **pottermalfoyyum**, **quarryquest**, and **sherlocksscarf**, to whom I owe a story with sprinkles.


	37. Chapter 37: The Bonus Chapter

**Three Weddings Part 1**

**Chapter 37**

_A/N:That strange, squeee-ing noise you heard from Norfolk this morning? That was me reading your reviews from yesterday! Oh you darlings - what am I going to do without you? I feel really sad to have to leave this, but my brain needs a break in order to bring you more cliffies, for which I am truly sorry._

_Incidentally, **Mirith** - Mummy and the footman? May have to use that one, if you don't mind? Heheheh! After all, why should Mycroft be the only one with unbridled lust int he family. But then, she may actually be dead, I couldn't possibly comment... Also, **aranel2712**- The reason you always get the end is because I never publish a WiP. Everything is always finished (except for chapters I need to add in response to feedback) before it goes up, so I can always ensure a) a reasonable level of quality, and b) an ending (in this case, of sorts, but nevermind)._

_Thank you to everyone for sticking with me for this marathon. You are amazing. And not least for writing nearly 300 reviews, which is a record for me, and I think is an achievement in itself. Yay for you! Thanks, peeps._

_So, back to work. I couldn't leave you like that, could I? Not knowing? No. I'm not that mean. So here it is, the bonus chapter I was not going to divulge, the bridge between Part 1 and Part 2._

* * *

He found them in the gun room, Sherlock and Mycroft in silence, tooling up. It was a room that gave John the creeps, lined with evil looking weapons behind glass now clouded with plaster dust from the blast. The roof beams were creaking, but they had been assured that this wing of the house was safe. For the moment at least.

'What's this?'

'Preparations,' Sherlock said. He was strapping a complicated holster onto Mycroft's solid body. It allowed several weapons to be secreted about his person.

'You're not going after him alone,' John told him.

'No, I'm not, Mycroft's coming too.'

'Oh, come off it, Sherlock!'

'With all due respect, John, this is a decision for us, not you.' Mycroft's body jerked as his little brother tugged at the straps.

'Fuck that! Of course it is! I'm a soldier, apart from anything else! I'm coming with you!'

'Let us do what we need to do,' Mycroft said, fixing him with a cold look. 'What we're best at.'

'He's right, John.' Greg's voice came from the doorway. His face was ashen, his eyes lightless. 'You don't send a commando in to do reconnaissance. You send them in for the battle at the end. That's what you're for.'

'With all due respect, Greg, I'm trained to kill. I'm more use to them out there, where I can protect them.'

'We don't need protecting,' Mycroft said, checking the clip on an automatic pistol before tucking it into the leather pocket under his arm. 'I am one of the few men outside of the armed forces whom the Government sanctions with a license to kill, and I assure you that my hit rate is a significant multiple of even your impressive score.'

'He's not kidding,' Greg added.

'I can't believe you're willing to let them go off and do this,' John cried, turning back to Greg. 'This man's a maniac, God knows what he'll have waiting for them out there!'

'All the more reason not to use a sledgehammer to crack a nut,' Sherlock observed. His own body was trussed into a Kevlar vest which had a significant number of bladed weapons neatly stowed in it. He tucked away the last, his favourite hunting knife, the one that normally pinned the post the mantlepiece at the flat. 'He'll be expecting us to throw everything we have at him. He wants a war, John. We won't give him that.'

'Twenty-four hours,' Mycroft said, pulling his jacket on over his arsenal. 'He already has a two hour start on us, but I doubt that with my hunting skills and Sherlock's analysis it will take us any longer than twenty-four hours to run him to ground. I'll call in a hit team at that point. I can arrange for you to be part of the forward party if you like?'

'I wouldn't miss it for the world,' John growled.

Mycroft sidled over to his new husband, standing close, hands soft on Greg's cheeks. The inspector looked up into his eyes.

'Where are the kids?'

Greg gave him a wan smile. 'Fingers took them.'

'Good, they'll be safe with him. He has a network of safe houses not known to my organisation.'

'Anthea's already at the Comms centre.'

'Stay with her. I'll patch you into every communication, so you know what's happening.' He stroked his love's face. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Stay safe,' Greg whispered. 'Need that nose in one piece.'

Mycroft smiled tenderly and kissed him.

'In the car in five minutes, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, and they were gone.

* * *

John watched Sherlock checking his pistols, two automatics and a machine. When he was finished, John snatched them up and checked them himself.

'Perfectionist,' Sherlock frowned.

'Excuse me, but you're pretty slap-dash when it comes to firearms, and I need to be sure.'

Sherlock made a circuit around the table and pulled John into his arms.

'I need to do this,' he said.

'I know. But you don't need to do it alone,' John told him.

'We'll move faster this way. You know what we're like, practically read each other's minds.'

'I don't like it.'

'I know. But I promise it will be alright.'

'Come back to me.'

'I will.'

'I don't think I can lose you again.'

'You won't.'

Sherlock stared into John's eyes as if his whole soul was open for the taking.

'I'm yours, remember?'

'Yes.'

'She was a bitch, John, but she was still my mother.'

John nodded. 'Don't take any risks.'

'I'll leave that to Mycroft.'

A question was still bubbling inside Johns' head. It had been seeing Sherlock with a knife in his hand that prompted it.

'What did he mean about Marseilles, Sherlock? Moran, I mean? In the alley?'

Sherlock's eyes darkened a little. 'Ask Baxter for the file,' he said. 'We'll talk about it when this is over.'

John nodded, and Sherlock kissed him, softly.

'Twenty-four hours,' he whispered as they hugged. 'Or less.'

John gazed up into his eyes. 'Make it less.'

* * *

**COMING SOON: PART TWO:**

The Pursuit, the Attack and the Third Wedding.

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**evenlode dot tumblr dot com**


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